


Runes

by Cumbersome



Series: Runish Scriblings [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome
Summary: Soulmate trash. Because I can. And we all want it.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Series: Runish Scriblings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720564
Comments: 329
Kudos: 1145





	1. Chapter 1

The entire mess began because Ron couldn’t tell a cursed object from a shitty tourist gift. 

“I don’t know what’s happening,” the redhead says, his expression sheepish. “And I think it might be spreading.” 

Perched on the edge of the sofa, Harry and Hermione lean in. Ginny watches from the doorway, her eyebrows drawn together. 

“Merlin, you’re all looking at me,” Ron says. 

“Just take off your shoes, mate,” Harry says. 

Hermione nods, curiosity burning a hole through her. 

“You can’t laugh.” 

“We won’t,” Hermione says.

“We’ll try not to,” Ginny adds. 

“I’m not taking them off then!”

“Mate,” Harry says, exasperated. “Be reasonable.” 

Groaning, Ron leans down, unlacing his shoes. He grimaces, kicks them off.

The others stare at his socks in anticipation. 

“Go on,” Ginny says. “Off with them.” 

Under the socks Ron’s feet have morphed. They are normal at the heel but the toes are gone, replaced by what look like the beginnings of two very shiny, very goat-like hooves. 

“Holy shit,” Ginny says. 

“How have you been walking?” Hermione says, appalled.

“I wondered what all the clopping was,” Harry says. 

“That’s not all,” Ron says. “I have a - uhm - “ he swallows, mumbles unintelligibly. 

“A what?” Hermione says. 

“A tail!” He wails, burying his face in his hands. 

“Show us,” Harry says. He winces as Hermione digs an elbow into his side. 

Hermione opens her mouth but pauses, frowning. “Wait. Is it a fluffy tail or is it a skinny tail? And where are you hiding it?” 

“I cut a hole in my boxers,” Ron says, voice muffled by his palms. “In the back of them.”

Ginny howls with laughter, stumbling until she falls onto the couch next to Hermione. She holds her stomach, doubling over. 

“I hate you,” Ron says. 

Harry hides a grin. “How long have you been like this? Since we got back?” 

Ron nods. “It started with my feet. And then the tail. And - and my back has been itching something fierce. I’m afraid to look.” 

“Take off your shirt,” Hermione says. 

Ron has waited years to hear those words from her mouth. He dearly wishes they were said with different context. Perhaps when he doesn’t have a tail in his trousers. 

There is a shared hiss of breath as he takes off his shirt, baring his back. The skin is covered with wiry black hair, thick and woolly. 

“Merlin’s saggy tits,” Ginny says. “That is fucking sexy.” 

Hermione lets out a gasp as he turns back around. 

“What?” Ron says. 

“You’ve something, just here,” Hermione says, touching her own temple. 

He touches his head, letting out a yelp when he touches something hard and sharp. Quickly, he runs from the living room and down the hall, throwing open a bathroom door. He lets out a hoarse scream as he looks into the mirror.

“I’m a bloody goat!” He says. He groans as the horns protruding from his skull grow, breaking through his skin. 

“Okay,” Hermione says, standing. “Let’s think about this. This is obviously a curse. We need professional help. Everyone get their shoes, we’re going to Mungo’s.” 

“I am not going to Mungo’s like this,” Ron says, his face turning redder by the second. 

“Ron,” Harry says. “We can’t help you. They’re trained. We’re not.”

“You wait much longer and you’ll be chewing the weeds in the garden,” Ginny says. 

“You are really not helping,” Hermione says. 

Ginny snickers. 

“Bill,” Ron says. “Floo Bill.” 

“It’ll take him ages to Apparate here,” Hermione says. “You’ll be full goat by then.”

Ron croaks, sliding down the wall.

“Talk about not helping,” Ginny says. 

“I really did not mean to say that out loud.” 

“Bill. Floo Bill, you assholes.” 

They oblige. Holding back laughter, the elder Weasley agrees to come. It takes less time than expected and there is a knock on the door. Harry and Hermione sitting on either side of Ron, Ginny answers the door. When she comes back, her face is pinched and her lips sucked between her teeth. Behind her is Bill Weasley. And behind him is none other than Fleur Delacour.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Bill says. “I brought help.” 

Flushing, eyes riveted to the blonde woman, Ron opens his mouth. He bleats. 

Hermione bites a knuckle. Harry holds back tears. Ginny looks as if she has bitten into a particularly foul Bertie Bott's Every Falvour bean. 

Crouching, Bill examines his brother, his eyes dancing. 

“Who’ve you pissed off?” He asks. 

Ron bleats in protest. 

“We’ve been gone all month,” Hermione says. “We only just got back from holiday. He said it started then.” 

Bill hums. “Where did you go?” 

“Spain.” 

“Bring anything back with you?” 

“Alcohol,” Ginny and Harry say together. 

“Rather nice parchment,” Hermione says. 

Ron waves a hand in the direction of his room. 

“Suitcase?” Hermione asks. 

He nods. 

“I’ll get it,” Bill says standing. 

Ron stares up at Fleur with adoring, goaty eyes. 

“Hiya, Fleur,” Harry says. “How have you been?” 

“Better than your friend Mr. Weasley,” she replies. “And you?” She looks directly at Hermione as she says it and Ginny’s frown deepens. 

Ginny steps next to her friend, dropping a possessive hand on her shoulder. “Fucking fantastic,” she says. 

“Ginny,” Hermione says. “Rude.” 

The redhead shrugs. 

Hermione stands, offering her hand. “Hello, Fleur. Thank you for coming to help. I know that the last time you met some of us wasn’t under the, erm, best of circumstances.” 

She doesn’t have to remind anyone that the last time she is referring to, Ginny very nearly lit the French witch on fire. And in turn, Fleur very nearly shattered Ginny’s spine. It was all very sudden. Something about Dean Thomas staring at Fleur’s tits. Ginny, being the jealous type, tried to Confringo the pair of them. Fleur, being guilty of nothing other than having stare worthy breasts, tackled the witch in a struggle for her wand. A broken wand and two bruised egos later, the witches were broken apart. Rumor was, Dean Thomas went home to find his Firebolt burning to ash on the walk and his muggle record collection melted to a useless puddle of vinyl next to it. 

Taking Hermione’s hand, Fleur smiles. There’s a dimple in one cheek as she does. Her eyes are so blue it hurts and her lips...Merlin. 

Blinking, Hermione frowns, taking her hand back. 

“You’ve grown taller, Mademoiselle Granger,” Fleur says, still smiling that dazzling smile. 

“That’s because she’s not a child anymore,” Ginny snaps. 

“I can see that.” Fleur doesn’t look at her. She keeps her gaze steadily on Hermione. 

Said witch slowly edges away, the room suddenly uncomfortably warm. She stands awkwardly next to Ron, Harry smirking from his place on the floor. 

Mercifully, Bill chooses that exact moment to return. He drops a suitcase to the floor and it thunks heavily to the floor. He waves his wand over it, brow furrowing. 

“Oh,” he says. “There it is. Fleur?” 

She kneels next to him, running her own diagnostic. Her eyebrows raise. “Merde.” 

“Well?” Ginny says, crossing her arms. “I’m not hearing anything valuable here.” 

Bill turns to Ron. “Did you buy a skull, Ronald?” 

Ron bleats plaintively. 

“A skull?” Hermione says, nose wrinkling. “Morbid.” 

Bill opens the suitcase with a flick of his wand, the latches snapping. Sitting on top of the tangle of shirts and socks and something that looks suspiciously like muggle weed, is the skull. A pair of lenseless plastic glasses attached to a bright red nose and a bushy black mustache sit over its face. A tiny straw sombrero perches on its dome. 

“Why?” Hermione says, squinting. “What would possess you to buy something so stupid?” 

“I can see it,” Harry says, head tilted. 

“This happens more often than you would think,” Bill says. “It’s only a bit of fun. They put a curse on random bits and bobs in the novelty shops. Dickheads like my brother buy them and presto bango - mangoat.” 

“Mangoat.” Ginny snickers. 

Harry nudges his friend in the side. “Yer a goat, Ron.” 

If goats could cry….Ron looks near it. 

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Hermione sighs. “Is it reversible?” 

“Very,” Fleur says. “Mr. Weasley is lucky it is not a malicious curse. We can supply him with a potion and it will reverse the effects. I will give him three. He must take them every day at 4PM exactly.” 

“We’ll make sure he does,” Hermione says. 

“It will take some time to make them. I can have them for you by tomorrow?” 

Eyes widening, Ron bleats in panic. 

“There’s a potions table in the basement you could use,” Harry says, patting his friend. “Right, Hermione?” 

“Of course,” she says. She gives an awkward gesture, feeling graceless in the Veela’s presence. “I can show you. I keep it well stocked.” 

Arching an eyebrow, Fleur dips her chin. “You never fail to impress.” 

Hermione coughs into her hand. “It’s only a hobby.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Ginny growls. 

“It’s nothing extreme,” Hermione says, leading Fleur down to the basement. “Just something small to meet our everyday needs. And the occasional experiment. If I don’t have what you need, there’s an ingredients shop just around the way.” 

The potions table is set up against the far wall of the basement, out of the way of direct sunlight. A beaker of bubbling green liquid ferments amid the mass of ingredients and glassware, its smell sharp and tart. There is a lovely leather journal open on the table. Fleur briefly sees bold, elegant handwriting, precise drawings. Hermione nearly trips over herself, slapping the journal closed. Holding it to her chest, she gives a weak smile. 

“Help yourself.” 

Shrugging out of her robes, Fleur rolls up her shirtsleeves. She takes quick stock of the assorted ingredients and finds that there is everything she could possibly need. Setting about crushing and smashing bits of this and that, she allows a quick glance to the girl hovering nearby. 

“You are very well equipped,” she says. “Some of these ingredients are rare.” 

“I have a broad range of interests. Potions isn’t my favorite, but I like to keep myself educated.” She drifts closer. “Would you like any help?” 

Fleur gives her a charming smile. “No. But I do enjoy your company.” 

“Oh.” Hermione blushes, seats herself on a teetering stack of old Daily Prophets. She lays the journal across her lap, caressing the cover. 

“I have embarrassed you?” Fleur says. 

Hermione watches the way the muscles in her forearm firm as she grinds a bit of ginger root to a fine paste. “No. Well, yes. Maybe?” 

Fleur gives a throaty laugh. “Do I make you nervous?” 

“Is there anyone you don’t make nervous?” 

“You are evading the question.” 

“I’m choosing not to answer it.” 

“A yes, then,” the Veela smirks. She sobers as she reaches for a beaker. “Tell me, how are you truly?” 

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “Fine?” 

“Ah, you are defensive now.” 

“I am not!” 

Fleur quirks an eyebrow. 

Hermione deflates with a huff. She gives a sigh, scratching a fingernail against the journal. “Sorry. No one’s really asked me that. Well, except Ginny. The boys and I, we don’t really talk about it, you know? We’re just trying to focus on ourselves. Deciding what we want to do now that everything is over.” 

“Talking is good. Cathartic. You English, you are so repressed. Your food, your speaking, your lovemaking. It is no way to live.” 

Hermione nearly chokes on her spit at the word “lovemaking” coming out of Fleur Delacour’s mouth. 

“The Weasley girl, is she your lover?” 

“My what?” 

“Your girlfriend?” 

“Ehm , no. She just doesn’t like you.” 

Fleur laughs. “So blunt.” 

Hermione shrugs. “It’s nothing you can’t see for yourself.” 

“There was that name….Phlegm?” 

Hermione pales. 

“It does not bother me. She was a child. My Veela heritage doesn’t endear me to everyone. Young, hormonal girls especially.” 

“She’s just...protective.” 

Fleur hums. She finishes in silence, covering the large beaker of glowing liquid with a towel. 

“Let it rest,” she says. “4PM tomorrow, do not forget.” 

“Of course. And thank you again, Fleur. I’m sure this has been nowhere nearly as exciting your usual fare.” 

Fleur smiles, flashing that adorable dimple again. “I have no complaints. It gave me a chance to see you. I have always admired you.” 

Hermione frowns. “Me?” 

“Of course. Is that so surprising?” 

It is. She is a part of the Golden Trio, but she receives nowhere near the adoration that Harry and Ron seem to attract. Then, she couldn’t bear it, that kind of attention. Just the thought of it makes her want to shrivel. 

“Well,” Hermione says slowly, weighing her words. “It is. I mean, you’re beautiful and brilliant and well - “ 

“Yes?” 

“You’re you,” Hermione finishes. 

Fleur is silent for a moment, her eyes scanning Hermione’s face. There is something intent in her gaze, something searching. 

“I am nothing compared to you, Hermione Granger.” 

The way she says it, with pride in her voice, something that almost sounds wistful. 

Bothered, she opens her mouth to reply, but loud footsteps clump down the stairs. A wave of red hair fans out as Ginny leans down, scowling down the stairs at them. 

“Oi, done yet? I’m fucking starving and I need Hermione to get her ass up here and make an executive decision. Indian, pizza, or goat food?”

Hermione gives a snort. She glances at Fleur and is startled to see how close they are standing. The Veela beams at her and steps away, gathering her robes. 

It’s not long before Bill and Fleur take their leave. Bill snickers and tugs at the horns from Ron’s head. Fleur smiles brilliantly and waves goodbye. Hermione feels her gaze lingering on her, but pointedly looks away, pretending not to see. 

Later, the boys in their respective rooms, Ginny knocks on Hermione’s door. Hermione sets her book aside, watching as her friend sprawls gracelessly on the end of her bed. 

Staring at the ceiling, Ginny scowls. “I don’t like the way she looked at you.” 

“Who?” 

“Phlegm.” 

Hermione sighs. “You really should stop calling her that.” 

Ginny doesn’t seem to hear her. “She looked at you like you’re a bloody sausage roll.” 

“Do the French eat sausage rolls?” 

“Probably not. No bloody taste.” 

“I think she’s very kind,” Hermione says. 

“Oh, you would. You’re the one being eye fucked.” 

“Ginevra Molly Weasley!” Hermione hits her with a pillow. “You’re making assumptions. Besides, she’s Veela. I suppose she looks at everyone like that.” 

“She’s a French tart is what she is. And no, Hermione Jean Granger. It’s the reverse. Everyone looks at her like that. She probably saves it for her unwitting victims.” 

“Don’t be a bigot.” 

Ginny scoffs. She bounces from the bed, heading for the door. “You watch. She’s going to turn back up. And when she does, you owe me firewhisky and a lapdance.” 

“I’m not agreeing to that!” Hermione shouts. 

The door slams. 

Hermione stares after her. After a moment of stewing, she reaches for her book, the title of which, interestingly enough is “Veela: A Compendium of Myths and Facts”. 

“I’m not a sausage roll,” she murmurs to herself, finding her place again. 

If anything, she is a jam tart. Strawberry, preferably.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing rattling about in the drains is most certainly a Boggart. 

Ron, being the current master of misfortune, is the first to meet it face to face. There he was, once again himself, nary a single remaining goat-like trait. Back scrubber in one hand, pink spotted shower cap firmly on his head, he was doing what wizards typically do in showers: he was transfiguring the soap bubbles into adorable duckies. 

He became aware of the sound first. It was a great moaning, a clashing of metal, echoing with alarming volume off of the shower tiles. Freezing mid wand wave, Ron listened, his eyes widening.

“What in Merlin’s baggy dungarees is that?” He muttered. 

It came from the drain.

One moment he was alone, the next there was a dark mist coughing and swirling from the drain between his toes. 

“Well, hullo, luv,” said a saccharine, high pitched voice. 

Slowly, scrub brush clutched in his fist like a battle-axe, Ron turned around. He screamed, high pitched, hands instinctively opening, dropping both the deadly scrub brush and his wand. 

Stood before him was Mrs. Janet Pendleton-Trout, smiling a ghastly smile. Mrs. Janet Pendleton-Trout is a neighbor, an elderly dame fond of wearing large church hats and skirts that definitely do not reach the knees. She’s harmless, really, if a bit handsy. Maybe occasionally they notice her pressed against her parlor window, mouth agape, magically enhanced binoculars trained with unwavering focus on whichever wizard happened to be out and about. Maybe when Harry carried her groceries in for her, she may have patted him a little too affectionately on the bum. She might have lingered, given him a goose and a leery smile. 

Ron, cornered like a rabbit and quivering like a newborn baby deer, screamed again. One liver spotted hand reached out, stroking his bicep. 

“There, there, dearie,” Mrs. Janet Pendleton-Trout said. “Aren’t you a lovely creature? Give Auntie Trout a kiss, won’t you?” 

She leaned toward him, smelling like stale perfume and cigars, her lips smacking, her teeth smeared with lipstick. 

Squealing, Ron lept from the showering, tangling with the curtain, ripping it down as he screamed and thrashed. 

“Ohhhh,” Mrs. Janet Pendleton-Trout cooed. “What a nice bum, you have, luv. I love a wizard with a firm arse.” 

The door nearly came off the hinges as Ron ripped it open, running for his life from the clutching, clammy hands of Mrs. Janet Pendleton-Trout. 

Having heard the ruckus, Hermione and Ginny charged up the stairs. They pulled up short as they spotted Ron, naked, freckly skin as red as a freshly boiled lobster. 

Frozen, the three stared at one another - Hermione blinking, Ginny’s eyebrows arching into her hairline, Ron dripping water onto the carpet. 

Hermione looked down, her gaze pointed. “Bit cold?” she asked innocently. 

Ron cupped himself, backing his ass into a wall. “In the-the shower,” he managed, pointing with his free hand to the bathroom. 

There was no Mrs. Janet Pendleton-Trout in the shower. But the smell of perfume and cigars lingered. The bubble duckies floated happily through the air, quacking.

And so it began. One might be brushing one’s pearlies when spiders would burst from the drain, covering one’s startled and horrified face with a thousand hairy little legs. 

One might be sipping tea over the sink, admiring the patchy grass and the dog relieving itself on said patchy grass when a voice would whisper from the drain. Upon investigating, one would be terrified to see a large, gnarled hand reach out, swiping at one’s unprotected beak. 

It was a reign of terror. Each wizard and witch in the house knew exactly how to combat a Boggart. Without fail the bugger seemed to catch them at such unexpected and inopportune times, they hardly had the sense to react in time. They took to clutching their wands, whether it be in the shower, on the loo, doing the laundry. But this particular Boggart was a mischievous and insidious creature, evading them with uncanny intelligence. 

Until it causes Ginny to stab herself in the eye with mascara. Hell hath no fury like a witch with burning eyes and smudged makeup. She howls, scrambling for her wand, pointing it in the general direction of the sink. 

“Riddikulus!” she screams.

The Boggart, in the shape of a broad-necked cobra, chuckles and slithers away, into the hall, down the stairs

When Fleur Delacour arrives, the house is in an uproar. Plates shattering, the group of friends shouting back and forth, a terrified Crookshanks hanging from the coat rack with his back arched, his fur standing on end. 

Fleur is nearly knocked from her feet, a scowling Hermione storming from the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and her wand held at ready. She slams into Fleur and they tangle, stumble. Fleur catches her, righting them with an awkward little dance. 

“Fleur?” Hermione says. “Is it really you?” 

She pokes her in the stomach to be sure. A small part of her notes the firmness of the muscle there, gives a little sigh of appreciation. 

“Uhhm, ow,” Fleur says.

“Sorry,” Hermione says, extricating herself from the French witch’s arms. “We have a Boggart. Several actually. We thought there was only one, but they’re popping up like moles all over the place.” 

“Well, we can’t have that,” Fleur says. “May I help?” 

“If you don’t, I’ll never speak to you again.” 

“I couldn’t bear that.” Fleur flashes her dimple as she draws her wand.

Hermione really wishes she wouldn’t look so damn charming when there is work to be done. 

Sometime later, four Boggarts trapped in jars, the group scour the house from top to bottom, searching out any remaining Boggarts. Staying with Hermione in spite of Ginny’s disapproving scowl, Fleur finds herself in a bedroom upstairs. She moves towards a chest of drawers, intending to give it a thorough search for inconvenient beasties, but Hermione coughs and steps in front of her. 

“This is, uh, my room. Maybe you should check under the bed?” 

Fleur smiles. Casually, she reaches over Hermione’s shoulder, pressing her hand against the smooth wood of a drawer, trapping the girl between herself and the furniture. Hermione flushes, looking down at the small sliver of space between them. 

“Mademoiselle Granger,” Fleur says, her voice soft. “Is there something you don’t want me to see?” 

Hermione scoffs. “Would you like me pawing through your underthings?” 

“Firstly, I do not paw. Secondly, you may touch whatever of mine you please.” 

Hermione swallows. “Oh.” 

How can anyone look so smug, Hermione wonders. Fleur gives her a toothy grin, eyes fixed on her lips. The air between them tightens and Hermione freezes, her knees locking, her brain overheating.

She’s not...is she? 

Hermione feels herself drawn forward, Fleur’s fingers tracing her collarbone.

A loud throat clearing cuts through the moment. Shielding Hermione from view, Fleur frowns, throwing an irritated glance over her shoulder.

Leaning against the door frame, Ginny crosses her arms and smirks. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?” 

“Yes,” Fleur says. There is growl to her voice, an air of defense, like an animal bristling. 

Slipping from under Fleur’s arm, Hermione shoots Ginny a dirty look, the redhead grinning all the wider for it. 

“Find any others?” Hermione asks, leaning down to check under the bed. 

“No.” But she isn’t looking at her, her eyes fixed on Fleur with a single minded intensity. “What are you doing here?” 

Fleur’s eyes close for a moment. When she opens them again, they are very blue, full of something that looks very much like pain. She takes a breath, exhaling through her nose. 

“I came to speak to Hermione,” she says. 

“Right. Didn’t look like you were trying to talk.” 

Hermione claps her hands together. “Okay, get this bad energy out of my room, please.” 

They’re not listening to her. 

“I know what you’re about,” Ginny says. “Bill told me.” 

“You know nothing.” Fleur takes a step forward. Her hand is clenched at her side, her face suddenly pale and drawn. 

Never one to retreat, Ginny steps up as well, her jaw locked, her gaze unwavering. “I do. And I think you should leave. You’re not welcome here.” 

Hermione steps between the two women, her eyes on Ginny. “Gin, stop it.”

She nearly falls over when she feels a warm body mold around her back. Fleur presses against her, her eyes suddenly dark, her lips curled. Her usually calm temper seems ready to snap, an uncharacteristic aggression seething under her skin.

Hermione doesn’t like it one bit. She steps away, putting distance between them. “I don’t know what is going on, but it needs to stop. Both of you.” 

Fleur wilts. She looks almost pitiful, the look she gives Hermione embarrassed. 

Ginny scoffs. Flipping Fleur the bird, she spins on her heel, slamming the door. 

Hermione lets out a breath. She sits on the edge of her bed, watches as Fleur shifts and looks at her from under her lashes. 

“What did she mean? What did Bill tell her?” 

Fleur waves a hand, as if to dismiss the last few minutes. “I came for another reason. When I saw you last, I got the impression that you are feeling a bit displaced. Is that accurate?” 

Looking down at her hands, Hermione feels her face grow warm. “Yes.” 

The mattress dips as Fleur sits next to her. She chuckles, brushing a finger over Hermione’s tangled hands. “You’re embarrassed.”

“I suppose. I guess, I don’t know. I thought I knew what I wanted. I had everything set in my mind, but since the war ended….It’s like my purpose is gone. There are so many things I can do, but I don’t want any of them. They seem so small, so empty.” 

“This is what I meant when I said talking is cathartic.” 

“Don’t be smug about it.” 

Fleur laughs. “I am not smug, only right.” 

“Still smug.” 

“I am leaving. Going to Ireland. There are ruins there. A group of researchers have been trying to enter them, but there are wards, magical traps that they are unable to disarm. Bill and I are leaving to help. I thought that perhaps you would like to join us.” 

“I’m not a curse breaker, Fleur. I would only be in the way.” 

“You, Hermione Granger? In the way? Laughable.” 

Hermione looks at her. Fleur is smiling, but there is a seriousness to her gaze, some unreadable emotion making her eyes dark. 

“Think of it as a learning experience,” Fleur says. “You come, I teach you amazing things, and maybe you will like it. If you don’t, you can leave and return to your room to mope and brood.” 

Amazing things, she said. It sends a flutter through her stomach, tightens her chest. She wants to take Fleur’s face in her hands, to brush her nose over her cheek, to lick her lips. 

She blinks, startled by her own thoughts. Quickly, she stands, putting space between her traitorous body and Fleur. 

“I don’t mope,” she says over the blood thundering in her ears. 

“You do,” Fleur smiles. “It is adorable, but it hurts me to see you so uncertain. Come with me?” 

“Why?”

Fleur raises an eyebrow. “Why what?” 

“Why do you care? You know, I’ve barely had a full conversation with you before you showed up with Bill. Suddenly, you look at me, and I feel like my knees are going to give out, and you smell amazing, and you’re sweet, and I don’t understand.” 

Fleur blinks. Hermione turns pale. 

Good one, Granger, she thinks. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. How fucking suave. 

Fleur stands, moving toward her. Hermione wants to shrink from her, to disappear, to melt into a gooey, embarrassed puddle. But Fleur’s thumb is on her chin, and she’s looking down at her with this beautiful fucking smile and her eyes are glowing, and and and and - 

“You are very sweet, Hermione,” Fleur says. She sighs. “There is so much I want to say to you, but the time isn’t right.” 

“How cryptic,” Hermione mumbles, trying to avoid looking into Fleur’s eyes. She looks at her mouth instead. It is a mistake. 

“Can you give me time?”

Merlin, she would give her anything. Just a word from her and she is sure she would do anything she asked. 

“I have time,” Hermione says. 

“Thank you.” 

Fleur presses a kiss to her temple and Hermione’s eyes slip close. 

“Does this mean you will come? With Bill and I?” 

“Yes.” 

Such a simple word. But with it, she feels as if she’s set something in motion, gears and cogs suddenly grinding to life, throwing sparks and smoke. 

Fleur smiles, all but dancing as she steps away. “Perfect. We leave in two days. Is that enough time for you?” 

“Yes.” 

“I will give you a list of things you will need to bring.” 

Lists, yes. Lists are good. Organized. Concise. Easily comprehended. 

Unlike that joy in Fleur’s eyes. That eagerness, that pure happiness. Those things, she doesn’t understand. 

But she will. With a bit of time and dedication, she will do what she does best: she will learn. 

Two days later, Hermione finds herself shivering in the coolness of the early morning air. 

Hair sticking up, Harry yawns hugely, groaning as his back cracks. Ron nods in and out, leaning against the door frame. Ginny by contrast is wide awake, scuffing at the concrete with the tip of her sneaker. 

“You’re sure about this?” Ginny asks. 

Bumping the red head’s shoulder with her own, Hermione gives her a small smile. “Stop worrying.” 

Ginny sighs. “Bill will look after you. It’s the other one I’m worried about.” 

“What do you know? What did Bill tell you.” 

Ginny doesn’t look at her, her jaw clenching. “Can’t tell you. I promised Bill. My temper got the better of me and it slipped out. Fucking Phlegm.” 

Hermione sighs. “You have never liked her.” 

“I like her less now.” 

“Morning children,” comes a far too chirpy voice. Bill walks towards the group, Fleur at his shoulder. He pauses, eyeing the drooping boys. “Ah, teenagers. What I would give to be an absolute wanker again.” 

“Hey,” Harry says. 

“Oh, not you, Harry. Mainly addressing my brother.” 

Ron mumbles, eyes nearly closed. 

Hugs are given all around, Harry crushing her, Ron dribbling and trying to stay awake. Ginny lingers, staring over Hermione’s shoulder at the blonde witch death glaring her into the ground. She smirks at her, leaning so that her breath warms Hermione’s ear. 

“You still owe me that lap dance,” she says, just loud enough for the others to hear. 

Fleur looks like she might spit. Bill blinks from his sister to Hermione. 

“Oh. I had no idea.” 

“Because there is no idea and nothing to have an idea about,” Hermione seethes, pulling away from Ginny. 

Ginny smiles innocently. She raises her eyebrows at Fleur, a challenge in her gaze. 

“Right,” Bill says slowly. He shakes his head. “I’ll not pretend to know what’s going on. Ready Mione? We’ll pop off just around the corner, yeah?”

With a final wave at her friends, they set off. 

“Good morning,” Fleur murmurs, falling into step next to Hermione. “You look lovely with your hair like that.” 

“Fleur, it’s a bun.” 

“Mm. It’s very nice.” 

Hermione gives her suspicious look, her eyes narrowing. 

Fleur sniffs her. “You smell nice, too.” 

“Okay, you. Three feet of separation. Go on.” 

Fleur does as she is asked, smiling. “I can still admire you from here.” 

“Hermione,” Bill says, suddenly, eyeing Fleur. He offers his arm. “Side-along?” 

Hermione takes his arm. Fleur pouts.


	3. Chapter 3

“We go it a bit rough when we’re working,” Bill is saying.

Hermione ignores Fleur’s smirk at the word “rough” and nods, attentive. 

“Our number one priority is safety,” Bill continues. “We do everything by the book, no deviations. I like to encourage creative thinking, but if Fleur and I ask you to do something, there is a reason.” 

More nodding. They walk up a steep hill, packs high on their backs, the treads of their boots digging into the soil. The sky above them is cloudless, a breathtaking blue. High up, Hermione can see the moon, nearly full.

“Number two priority,” Bill says, slightly out of breath, “is efficiency. We want this done quickly. We get it done, disarm everything, and the researchers go about their business. Then we go for a pint and a bite and move on to the next job.” 

They crest the hill and Hermione gasps. Laid out before them is a vast expanse of incredibly green grass. It leaves off in a sharp drop, down craggy, spiny rocks, rolling out into the depth of a bright blue Celtic. Perched on the cliff, nearly spilling into the water is a small castle. It is grey and broken in places, exposing steps that go up, up into the air. It seems to lean dangerously, as if one good wind will knock the entire thing into the sea. 

“It goes deep into the ground,” Fleur says. “There are crypts, vaults. Secret passages.” 

“Wow,” Hermione breathes. 

Blinking, she finally notices the tents pitched near the castle. There are a dozen at least, brightly colored and snapping in the sharp breeze. Witches and wizards move among them, industrious, their robes as bright as their tents. 

Setting off down the hill, Bill shields his eyes against the sun. Fleur moves closer to Hermione, placing a steadying hand on her elbow. Hermione gives her smile of gratitude and Fleur flushes. 

“Would you like to hear the story behind the castle’s lord?” Fleur asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

“You’re in for a treat,” Bill calls over his shoulder. 

“The locals say he was a wizard named Caedmon. He was the third son of a fifth son, and so not destined for great things. When he was a child, the male heirs of the family began to die. A few in battle, not uncommon in that time. But then a sickness spread, a horrible thing, twisting the mind, driving the men mad. They became paranoid, violent, suspecting their kin and their peers of plotting their deaths. And so they died, whether it be by their own hands or the hands of each other. Until there was but one, Caedmon.”

Hermione gives a shudder. 

“As I said, Caedmon was a child when this began. By the time he reached his manhood, all the male heirs were dead, leaving only he and his female relations. He was particularly fond of his sister, Callan. So fond in fact, that he married her. She was unwilling, fighting him, defying him at every turn, until one day she struck him and he became enraged and cast an Imperius on her.”

“The bastard,” Hermione says. 

“Mm,” Fleur acknowledges. “The only flaw became the fact that she could not bear him a child. He was desperate for it, desperate to see their blood line continue. And so, though he greatly loved his sister, he wed his cousin, Ceara. She was much more complacent, and submitted to him without need for force. She became pregnant twice, both times with boy children. But on the first full moon of each pregnancy, Ceara miscarried. They say she pushed monstrous things from her body, eyeless creatures with twisted legs and wings sprouting from their shoulders.” 

“They were cursed!”

Fleur smiles. “Caedmon, arrogantly believing that the fault lay with his wives, took another wife, a woman of proven fertility. His mother, Duvessa.” 

“Of course he did.” 

“Duvessa was a powerful witch, a tempest. Disgusted and enraged by his advances, she spurned him. Caedmon, always an insidious man, bade a servant to slip a potion in her drink, a potion to make her sleep and dream. Whilst she slept, he took her body. A time later, she found she was pregnant. Two boys, the birthing witch told her. And so Duvessa began to plot. She gathered about herself the other wives, releasing her daughter from the Imperius curse. While the servants and Caedmon slept, the women gathered knives. The crept into his bedchamber, and by the light of a waxing crescent moon, they murdered him, his blood bright upon the sheets, darker on their hands.” 

“Serves him right.” 

“Ah, but the story does not end happily. Caedmon was a cruel man, but he was not ignorant. He knew someone would betray him, whether it be a wife or a servant. A time before, he had journeyed deep into the moorlands, seeking out a wizard so ancient that none knew his name. He was as dark and twisted as any wizard could be, wearing robes woven with bones and human hair. The crown atop his head was made from the jawbones of his victims, his wand core Rougarou hair. Caedmon told him of his misfortune, of the suspected treachery. The nameless wizard listened and at the end of the tale he laughed. He gave to Caedmon a seed and told him to plant it under the oldest tree in the land. He was to do so at the witching hour, under a new moon.” 

They are nearing the wizarding camp. Bill goes ahead, Fleur and Hermione lingering. 

“Caedmon followed the instructions exactly. The seed grew, quietly, drinking the life from the ancient tree above it until the tree was gnarled and dead. The seed became a beast, a fanged thing, giant and clawed, its skin as red as hellfire, its eyes as black as the night it was planted. The beast felt Caedmon’s death and in a rage, it tore itself from the ground and set out to punish the murderers. When it came upon the castle by the sea, it spared no one. The servants, the wives - it ripped them apart, tore them to shreds and feasted upon their flesh. Its purpose complete, it climbed to the top of the castle and there it found Caedmon’s body. Gathering it gently into its monstrous arms, the beast began to weep, to howl, its dark heart broken beyond repair.” 

“Merlin,” Hermione breathes. “And then?” 

Fleur shrugs. “No one knows. The bones of the dead are long turned to dust. But they say the beast still lingers, deep beneath the castle, curled up in the dark, waiting for some unlucky wizard or witch to free it.” 

Hermione swallows. “Please tell me we’re not here to fight hell spawn.” 

“I don’t think so,” Fleur laughs. “There is dark magic here, and ghosts, but no hell spawn.” 

“I’m holding you to that.” 

Fleur laughs again, lacing Hermione’s arm with her own. “You are a silly witch. There are no such things as monsters.”

“Says you,” Hermione mumbles. 

They are greeted warmly as they enter the camp. A few of the younger faces gape with awe when they hear Hermione’s name, questions buzzing in their mouths. The older ones maintain more grace, sushing their younger colleagues. 

Sensing Hermione’s discomfort at the sudden attention, Fleur smiles tightly and makes an excuse of checking the castle over, steering Hermione away with a gentle touch on her arm. 

“Is it like that often?” Fleur asks. 

Hermione gives a small nod. “Less with Harry and Ron around. They’re the ones people want, you know. They’re the warriors. I’m just the bookworm.”

A hand on her shoulder stops her and she turns, looking up to see a scowl twisting Fleur’s features. 

“You are not just a “bookworm”, Hermione Granger. You are a fighter. You’re a powerful witch, an amazing thinker. If you hadn’t been with those idiots - “ 

“They would have made it regardless,” Hermione interrupts. “Though, maybe returning with less limbs.” 

“Non.” There is a stubborn set to Fleur’s jaw, steel in her eyes. She steps close to Hermione, reaching out to twist her fingers in the hem of her sweater. “Do not sell yourself short, Hermione. You can never know your value, to the world, to your friends, to me.” 

“And what exactly is my value to you?” Hermione is surprised by her own boldness.

Fleur’s lips part and she steps even closer, her fingers untangling and smoothing over the front of Hermione’s sweater, sliding up to cup her jaw. The look in her eyes is startling, powerful, something struggling to twist free. She swallows, her gaze tracking over Hermione’s face. 

“I - “ 

“Okay, ladies!” Bill says. His scarred face is beaming, grin wide. He looks directly at Fleur. “Shall we take a tour?” 

Hermione slips away and Fleur is left holding empty air. The look she gives Bill could curdle milk. He smiles. 

“Mione,” he says, following her to the castle. “How did you like the story?” 

Fleur mumbles at his back and trails behind.

It’s not until nearly dusk that Hermione finds she will be sharing a tent with Fleur. 

“I typically bunk with Androw over there when we have the same sites,” Bill explains. “Old school friends.”

His grin is too innocent, his eyes shining. Unimpressed, Hermione folds her arms. It’s not that she particularly minds sharing space with the French Veela - in fact, the thought sends her stomach fluttering, makes her throat dry, her fingers twitchy. Given the choice, she would happily curl into the other woman’s lap and stay there for as long as feasibly possible. But there is something sly about Bill’s grin, some unknown machination she can’t put her wand tip on.

“You do not have to if you do not wish to,” Fleur says. She shoots a look at Bill, unreadable. “I would not want to make you feel uncomfortable.” 

Ah, but the discomfort is so sweet. Taut, pulled hard between them. A line of glowing silver, wrapped around their hearts, tangled around their tongues. 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable, Fleur,” Hermione says. “I suppose not smelling Weasley feet will be a rare luxury.” 

“I resent that,” Bill says. “I have sprays, powders, extra socks. Feet are important, after all. I can show you if you like.” 

He kneels down to untie his boot and Hermione laughs. 

“I trust your foot hygiene is impeccable,” she says. 

They part ways, Bill happily weaving through the camp of bustling wizards. Fleur and Hermione hesitate, suddenly shy. Fleur gives a small smile, holds out her hand. Hermione takes it in her own. Their fingers touch and she feels that silver thread between them hum, sing.

Being the capable witches that they are, they make quick work of the tent, and the expansion spells they add. Roughing it, Bill had said. Hermione snickers. How can you rough it with magic? Fluer adds a fireplace and two huge, overstuffed chairs that she says are replicas of furniture in her father’s library. Hermione adds a large rug and from her charmed bag, pulls her entire to-read stack. It teeters precariously, Fleur laughing, Hermione blushing. 

They agree on a set of bunk beds to sleep in. Hermione ignores Fleur’s comment about how much more comfortable a nice queen size bed to share would be. She also ignores her when she chooses the upper bunk with a none too tactful remark about “enjoying being on top.” 

And then it is time to sleep. Hermione transfigures her day clothes into a nice comfy set of pajamas. She is admiring her work with a proud grin when she hears a flutter of cloth and turns.

She squeaks. Grown woman that she is, she squeaks and nearly trips over thin air. 

Fleur’s back is to her, and very bare, her shirt fluttering to the floor below. Hermione stares, running her eyes over the graceful curve of her spine, the muscles of her shoulders flexing as she moves, the way her skin seems to glow in the candlelight. Her eyes clings to the curve of her hips, the fabric of her pants outlining the shape of her. She swallows harshly as she hears a zipper lower, Fleur’s long hair over one shoulder, the other bare and beautiful and biteable. 

“Hermione,” Fleur says. She is looking over her shoulder at her, her eyes darkened. “It is impolite to stare.” 

“Sorry,” Hermione says, snapping her gaze to the tent’s ceiling. 

“It is impolite to stare in such a way unless one is on equal grounds.”

Merlin’s beard….

And then she turns. She’s all smiles and breasts and hips, her jeans undone, a freckle just there, at the nape of her neck. She steps up to Hermione and touches the sleeve of her shirt. Hermione closes her eyes, suddenly deeply mortified that she chose to decorate the sleeping clothes with smiling, poofy little lambs. 

Sexy, Granger, she sneers to herself. Really showing your maturity. 

But they’re so comfortable! Growing less so the closer Fleur comes to her, the heat emanating from her bare skin burning her. She’s sure she will wither away any moment, melting under that blue gaze so intent on her. 

Fleur’s fingers dance along the collar of her shirt. They pause at the top button, pulling it from its place. She gently parts the clothing, her eyes on Hermione’s face. 

“There,” she says, touching the bit of skin she has exposed. “So you can breathe.” 

As if. 

Fleur’s eyes are darker than she has ever seen them. There’s a tension in her shoulders, a tightening in the muscles of her stomach, as if she is trying to hold herself back. She breathes out slowly, studying Hermione’s face. 

And then she takes a step back. 

“Goodnight, Hermione,” she says. Her accent seems thicker, something rough and edgy to her voice. 

“Fleur - “

But the other is already turning away, moving towards the fire. 

Confused, Hermione and her fluffy lamb pajamas slide into the lower bunk. She keeps an eye on the Veela across the room. Just as sleep takes her, she resolves that soon, very soon, she will corner Bill Weasley and wring the truth out his smiling, secretive face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, you guys are awesome. Just in case no one has said so yet today. Which they should. Because you are. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Amidst rain and sea spray, they enter the castle. 

The air is colder, somehow cooler even than the temperature outside the castle walls.

“Ghosts,” Bill comments, scanning the place with watchful eyes. “There’ve been sightings, but no direct contact. I would say they’re a bit shy. The locals steered well clear of this place.” 

“What is the interest now?” Hermione asks. 

“Curiosity,” Fleur says. “It’s human nature, isn’t it? Locked doors and curses only make you wonder what may be lurking below.” 

“Also, gold,” Bill smiles. “Our old friend Caedmon is sure to have had a veritable trove of goodies lying somewhere in one of the vaults underneath this place.”

And so the work begins. Breathing ancient dust and dark air, the trio descend deep into the castle’s dungeon. They traverse over broken stone and rotted wood, trekking through bone cold water, up to their thighs in the mess, trying not to think about what creatures might be swimming around their ankles. 

Thrilling opportunities abroad, the Gringotts’ pamphlet claimed. Underlined were words like danger, adventure, and gold - Buzzwords that made the adrenaline fueled wizards and witches sigh with appreciation, and the less enthusiastic wince and peer more closely at the herbology pamphlets. 

What the pamphlet did not mention was the amount of scrapes, bruises, hangnails and singed eyebrows one was likely to get. Perhaps it was implied, but Hermione finds herself cursing aloud as she slams her head into a low hanging wall. She nearly dies a particularly gruesome death when a trap door swings open under her. Luckily for her and her fear of sharp pointy spikes, Bill is near and catches her by the forearm, pulling her to safety with a cavalier wink. 

“Bit of a drop,” he says, peering down into the trap. 

Hermione doesn’t hear him, too busy breathing heavily and trying to banish visions of a bloody end. 

All together, the first day is a successful one. Experienced and professional, Bill and Fleur move rapidly through the traps and curses. When the trio emerge from the castle dungeon that evening, said Curse Breakers are decidedly less ruffled. Hermione, bedraggled and sore, feels like a bag of bricks sinking to the bottom of the sea. Bill and Fleur are in high humor, their banter easy and familiar. All Hermione can think about is a soft bed and her softer lamb jammies. 

It’s as she is drifting off, darkness coming over her, that she hears the voice. 

It is deep, rough, like gravel being crushed. 

‘Little witch,’ it says. ‘Have you come for me?’

Exhaustion, she thinks. And she is gone, her heavy mind getting the better of her, blanking her like a snuffed candle. 

She doesn’t remember the voice as she rises in the morning. What she does remember is one Bill Weasley.

She finds him holding a cup of steaming tea, watching the sun rise over the Celtic. The light is bloody on his skin, the scars over his face standing out in sharp relief. He glances at Hermione as she stands at his side, gives a small smile. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Bill says, still smiling. He sips his tea, watching her from the corner of his eye. “What’s troubling you?” 

“Fleur,” Hermione says. 

“Ah.” He takes another sip. He gives a thoughtful nod, takes a deep breath of the sharp, salty air. “Normally, I can’t get that woman to stop speaking. She has so much to say. But for you, I imagine she’s not saying nearly enough.” 

Hermione looks at him, meeting his eyes. She is surprised by the sorrow she finds there, the loss. 

“Bill - “

He shrugs, waves her off. 

“I’m alright,” he says. “I don’t suppose you know much about Veela.” 

“Only what I’ve read.” 

“Ah, it’s all bullshit. Veela are secretive, nearly violently so. They hide their true nature, as much as they can. Some of it they can’t, like their Thrall. But the rest, it’s not for the world. I know more than most. Not everything. But….” He pauses, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “She did me a kindness and told me some things.” 

“Kindness?” 

“I loved her. Still do, actually. It’s not the kind of thing that goes away. It’s in my gut, in my heart, in my mind. You don’t just flip a switch and stop feeling it. No matter how painful it is.” 

“What happened?” 

He laughs, hoarse, his voice thick. “What always happens. One day I’m introduced to this woman. She’s tall, she’s beautiful, she tells the best jokes. Has a mind like a constellation, her magic is like music, the sweetest thing to ever brush over your skin. I fell for her, foolishly and deeply. She saw it, and when she looked at me, it was not with love, but with pity. Never felt so sick in my life. There’s nothing worse than knowing the love of your life can never, will never feel the same. I would rather have these from head to toe.” He gestures to the scars on his face. 

“How can you bear to stay?”

“I would go mad if I couldn’t be there for her. You’re too young to understand this, but a person can have more than one soulmate. Each one is a little piece of you, fulfilling you differently. I’m just not her romance.” 

“But she is yours.” 

“Yes.” 

They fall silent, watching the sea lose it’s bloody color, turn pink, the clouds on the horizon bright and bleeding light. 

“What did she tell you?” Hermione asks. 

“The truth,” he says. When he looks at Hermione, his expression is bleak, lost. “It’s not for me to tell her secrets. Give her time, Mione. Trust her.” 

Hermione nods slowly. Gingerly, she brushes her fingers against the back of Bill’s hand. He swallows hard, responding by turning his hand over, clasping hers with his rough fingers. They stand together, the sun warm on their faces, salt on the tips of their tongues, lost in their own thoughts as the clouds clear and the sea roars. 

Deep in the dark of the castle’s vaults, Hermione and Fleur are alone, Bill having diverged down a different path. They move along a wall, Fleur scanning for traps, Hermione wary and on edge. She hears something, a sigh, a rustle of scales over the stone. 

She freezes, head cocking, wand held aloft. Fleur pauses ahead of her, her expression askance. 

“Did you hear something?” Hermione asks, twisting, peering into the wash of blue light emanating from her wand. 

“Nothing,” Fleur says. “Where did it come from?” 

Hermione shudders. She can’t shake a feeling of dread, of fear, as if something is just at the back of her neck, teeth an inch from her skin, breath stirring the thin hairs at her nape. 

“Hermione.” Fleur takes a step toward her. 

A hiss, coming from the darkness, sliding eerily over their skin. 

“There,” Hermione whispers. 

“Don’t move,” Fleur replies. She takes another step.

“Away beast,” comes a deep voice. There is a flash of movement, a red glow. “Begone before I crush your fragile little bones to dust.” 

Fleur’s hand catches Hermione’s wrist, pulling her close. 

“Show yourself,” Fleur says. Her voice is suddenly rough, her accent thickening. She is stiff, her fingers digging into Hermione’s wrist. “Show yourself or I swear to Merlin I will burn you to ash.” 

A laugh, rumbling, derisive. And then it is standing before them, swirling to form from black smoke. It is massive, its skin covered in small, glittering scales. The face is that of a human man, all cheekbones and dark brows. Tapering horns sprout from its temples, as black as its eyes. It smiles, and its teeth are sharp, too many of them, its tongue like a bloody muscle. 

“Please,” the creature says, grinning. “Demonstrate what havoc you can wreak with your little….stick.” 

“It is not a stick,” Fleur snaps. 

“Kinda is,” Hermione says. 

The creature gives purr of approval, flicking its gaze to Hermione. 

“Little witch,” the creature says. “What foul smelling company you keep.” 

“Foul,” Fleur sputters. “I do not smell foul.” 

“Hm.” The creature leans in, ignoring the wand pointed at its nose. It gives a sniff and sneers, showing its teeth. “You smell of wild animal and stunted magic. You smell like a beast.” It takes a deeper breath, nostrils flaring. “Oh ho! But you are a Veela. How quaint. It’s been more years than I can count since I last encountered one of your kind. Tell me, do you still live in those adorable little mud huts?” 

Fleur all but trembles with rage. Hermione pries her fingers from her wrist and takes a cautious step forward. The creature before her rumbles, smiling. 

“Little witch,” it says. “Now you, you smell of a spring day. You smell of blood on the earth. You smell of new life and promise.” 

Hermione resists the urge to sniff her shirt. She considers the creature before her, running her gaze along its form. 

“I’m impressive, wouldn’t you say?” the creature says, smug, all but striking a pose. 

“Who are you?” Hermione says. 

“I am Asmodeus The Thrice Damned. Destroyer of Men, Devourer of Flesh, Drinker of Fire. The Horned One. The Red Scaled Beast.” 

“No way would that fit neatly on a Christmas card,” Hermione says. “May I call you As?” 

Asmodeus hums, dips his head. “Whatever your heart desires, little witch.” 

“What are you?” Fleur says.

Asmodeus sniffs. “Delicacy was never a strength of the Veela.” 

Fleur bristles, eyes narrowing. 

“I am vengeance,” Asmodeus says. “I am hellfire and ruin. I am destruction.” 

“You’re dramatic,” Fleur mumbles. 

“The seed under the ancient tree,” Hermione murmurs. She blinks up at Asmodeus, awed. 

“You are correct,” Asmodeus says. “I am Caedmon’s creature. His beast of burden, his sure retribution. I was tied to him, to his life force. His death was….painful.” 

“And you’ve been here since? In this moldy damp?” 

“I prowled the land for some time. Learning, watching, gaining new experience. But I grew weary, and retired to the dark. My purpose was gone, and there seemed little to dream of, and even less desire to try. I wanted only to sleep. Until wizards and their silly little sticks came and started poking at my wards. I do hate wizards. Almost as much as I hate beasts.” This last bit sneered at Fleur who returns the expression with a curl of her lip. 

“Merlin,” Hermione breathes.

“I considered slaughtering the lot,” Asmodeus says, casually. “But then I felt you, little witch. You called to me. Your magic is...intoxicating. You speak to me, make my black heart beat. You have touched darkness and in turn it has given you a bit of itself. This excites me.” 

Fleur shifts. She doesn’t like the sound of that one bit. She can’t imagine what such a creature would do in a fit of excitement. 

Asmodeus chuckles, looking at the Veela with black eyes, a ring of light shining in their center. “Your beast has darkness of her own, though she fights her nature. It is unfortunate. So much potential, squandered to fit yourself into the world of wizards. And still, you’re an outcast. How does that make you feel?” 

Fleur’s eyes are nearly as black as Asmodeus’. She swallows, visibly trembling, her face deathly pale in the wand light. 

“Temper, temper,” Asmodeus chides. 

Hermione opens her mouth, fully intending to put a stop to the bickering, but she is interrupted by a gasp. She turns, finds Bill gaping, wand pointed at Asmodeus. 

“Stupefy!” He shouts. 

Hermione surprises herself. She steps in front of Asmodeus, blocking the jagged red spell with a shield. The spell rebounds, the stone around them absorbing it. 

“Bill! Stop!” 

He blinks at her, lowering his wand. “Hermione...what in Merlin’s singed beard is that?” 

Hermione sighs. “Bill, meet Asmodeus. Asmodeus, Bill Weasley.” 

Rising to his full height, Asmodeus peers down the line of his nose at the wizard, his disdain clear. 

“I am Asmodeus The Thrice Damned. Destroyer of Men, Devourer of Fle - “

“Yes, yes,” Fleur interrupts. “We understand. You’re a terrifying murder demon. Anything else?” 

Asmodeus hisses. “I eagerly await the day when I can teach you how to address your betters, beast.” 

“My betters? You arrogant, claw toed, mewling kitten.”

Asmodeus gasps, expression stricken. “Claw toed? Kitten? You little harpy!” 

“I am not a harpy! I am Veela, you stunted flobberworm!” 

Bill takes Hermione’s shoulder, turning her away from the bickering pair. 

“What are we going to do?” Bill whispers, casting a wide-eyed glance at the raging Asmodeus. “We cannot take that above ground, whatever it is. If the others were to see him…We should contact the Ministry.” 

“What will they do with him?” She can’t keep the concerned frown from her face. “They aren’t exactly known for their fair treatment of magical creatures.” 

“Times have changed.” 

“Have they?” 

He hesitates. “I hope so.” 

An owl later finds Hermione and Fleur standing alongside Asmodeus as three wizards Apparate. They are unfamiliar, dressed in bright blue robes. Bill greets them with handshakes all around and a nervous gesture. 

Shrouding himself in shadow, Asmodeus hisses, his tail lashing the ground. 

“What are those, little witch?” He asks. 

Hermione gives a faint, uncertain smile. She doesn’t care for the way the wizards are looking at Asmodeus, their eyes shining and narrowed. 

“They are here to help.” 

Fleur watches, her face blank. “I have a bad feeling about this.” 

“For once we agree, beast.” 

“Hermione Granger,” says one of the wizards, approaching. He is tall and wiry, gold spectacles making his eyes appear large and watery. “A pleasure to meet you. A real treat.”

Hermione nods, unsure of what to say. 

The wizard smiles. “I am Jedediah Crumb. Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. That beauty standing at your shoulder is a Demon of Eden. Rare finds, they are. Never encountered one myself. Thought they were only stories, really.” 

“Do I look like a story to you, little man?” Asmodeus snarls, leaning over Hermione to flash his teeth in a snarl. 

Crumb winces, flinching back. He gives a nervous chuckle, straightening his spectacles. “Bit aggressive, according to the stories. Born from hatred and malice and a thirst for vengeance. Can’t have them wondering about unchecked, can we.” 

“So you’re saying….” Bill frowns.

“That we will destroy it.” 

Hermione is suddenly aware of the other wizards fanning out, their wands at the ready. 

“You can’t do that,” Bill says, almost snarling. “That is an intelligent being. You can’t simply kill it.” 

“It is a blight and a curse, Mr. Weasley. Kindly step aside.” 

“Fleur,” Hermione says, eyes on the wizards. 

At her back, Asmodeus howls, head back, his muscles corded and rigid.

“Miss Granger,” Crumb says, his pale eyes unreadable. “You of all people should understand. That is a weapon. Not a being. A monster.” 

“There are no such things as monsters,” Fleur says. With a smirk, she takes Hermione’s hand, placing her free hand on Asmodeus’ trembling arm. “Silly little man.” 

And then they are gone, ripped from view with a crack and a twist. 

Birds. Light, green as it filters through shifting leaves. 

Hermione blinks. She finds herself on her knees, struggling to find her breath. A hand touches her back and she feels a warm presence at her side. 

“I am sorry,” Fleur says. “My concentration was broken. Are you hurt?”

“No,” Hermione manages. “As?”

“I am here, little witch,” the demon says. He sits on the ground, sighing as he stretches and turns his face to the sun. “The Veela should not have interfered. I would have easily destroyed the wizards.” 

“That’s the point,” Fleur snaps, shooting the demon a dark glare. “You kill them and we have no chance of helping you.” 

“I do not need your help, beast.” 

“Where are we?” Hermione asks, leaning back on her heels. She looks around, noting the dense trees.

Fleur stands, dusting off her hands. She gives a nervous shrug, turning away. 

“My home,” she says. 

“Ah, off to the mud huts are we?” Asmodeus smirks. 

Ignoring the demon, Hermione rises to her feet. She places a hand on Fleur’s shoulder, frowning at the tension she feels there. 

“Fleur?” 

The Veela turns suddenly, her eyes dark, the blue of her iris nearly swallowed by her pupils. “This is not how I imagined it, bringing you here. I wanted to speak to you first, explain.” 

“Now is as good a time as any,” Hermione offers. 

Fleur shakes her head. “There is no time. Our presence here is sure to have been noted. They will be here soon.” 

“Who?” 

“The Veela,” Asmodeus says, stretching with a yawn. “You’re in for a treat. They make the best hot chocolate.” 

“Hermione,” Fleur says, taking the younger woman by her face, looking intently into her eyes. “You must not separate from me. No matter what they say to you. Stay by my side. And do not look them in the eyes. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Hermione says, frowning. “But I don’t understand.” 

“You will,” Asmodeus smirks. 

And then they are there, a dozen at least, their sudden presence thickening the air, strangling the light. 

“Kneel,” Fleur hisses. 

They do. Even Asmodeus. They kneel and wait, breath caught in their chests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me quite a bit of trouble for some reason. I'm still not sure how much I like it. But I think things will pick up a bit in future chapters, so there is that to look forward to. I hope you all enjoyed it. If nothing else, it is momentum forward to more interesting things.


	5. Chapter 5

Veela, unsurprisingly, do not live in mud huts. 

Breaking from the trees, Hermione’s eyes widen and she tilts her head back, and back, and back. The village is embedded into the side of a massive hill. The homes are carved from beautifully dark stone, the roofs deep red in color, the windows prominent and arched. The paths in between and leading up are cobbled and clean. Crowned at the top is what appears to be an amphitheater of pillared stone, rough cut and ancient. Squinting, she can make out stone benches, seating enough for the entire village.

It is beautiful, but uniform, constrained. The order seems too tight, militaristic almost. The faces that peer out at the group of newcomers are solemn, the children tangled in their parents’ legs oddly quiet. 

Atop a stone wall sits a black cat. It watches with golden eyes, idly licking a paw. It gives a meow, flicking its tail. 

“Up along the path,” a Veela says, pointing with her chin. Her name is Aline. She was the first to speak to Fleur, staring down with a hard expression at the Veela kneeling in the dirt. 

“Delacour,” she said, her voice like a brewing storm. “What a surprise. And you’ve brought friends.” 

Face to the ground, Hermione felt a tension wind in her stomach, her jaw tightening. A Veela drifted close to her, leaning down to sniff her. 

“Magnifique,” the Veela said. There was an edge to her voice, something dangerous and unsettling. “This one smells nice. Is she yours, Fleur?” 

Fleur looked up and her eyes were black. “Step away.” 

“Aw,” the Veela giggled. She caught a strand of Hermione’s hair, twirling it around her finger. “Have I offended you? She doesn’t smell claimed. Tell me,” she directed her attention to Hermione, “are you the adventurous sort, mon amie? I am unmated myself.” 

Hermione shuddered, recoiling from the Veela’s touch. There was a sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, her brows dipped in anger, but then Fleur stood. She was quick, planting herself between Hermione and the handsy Veela. Her fists clenched at her sides, quivering with something close to violence. 

“Stop toying with the Human, Rosalee.” Aline’s voice was bored.

Rosalee laughed, danced away. 

A moment passed and Fleur let out a breath. “Take me to my mother.” 

Aline considered her. “We do not allow outsiders. The Human and the…” She spared a glance at Asmodeus, “the other one cannot enter.” 

“They will. I invoke the right of hospitality. The Human and the demon are mine. I accept responsibility.” 

Whispers from the Veela. Aline merely arched a dark brow. 

“You have spoken. Be on your head the consequences.” 

Hermione startled as she was pulled to her feet, pressed with Fleur and Asmodeus into the center of the group of Veela.

A hand touches her elbow and Hermione is drawn from her thoughts, finds herself looking up into Fleur’s blue eyes. The other is frowning, worry plain on her face. Hermione tries to smile, but the muscles of her face feel stiff and uncoordinated. 

They ascend the hillside village, passing the watching Veela, pressed forward and up towards the crowning coliseum. 

“This village is built on the bones of dead soldiers,” Aline says, face forward, her tone conversational. “Ancient Men, battling for a small plot of land to plant their vines and settle their children. It was a small affair in the grand scope of history. Not even worthy of a footnote. But bloody nonetheless. Every one of them died, to the last soul. They fought and fought, even as their brothers fell. They didn’t know that the land was cursed, driving them mad with blood lust and hatred, curbing any desire to retreat. They screamed and cut and raged, until there was only one. A nameless farmer. He stood on a mountain of dead Men, the victor, the conqueror. But as he looked around, the enormity of what had transpired bowed him, drove him mad with grief. And so he knelt among the dead and he spilled his life onto the ground with one clean swipe of his bloody blade.” 

“Romantic,” Asmodeus, comments. He dashes a bloody tear from his eye. “I do love a happy ending.” 

He smiles at Hermione’s look of horror, showing off his pointed teeth. 

“My ancestors were attracted to the darkness of the place,” Aline continues. “It called to them, leading them through dark forests and deep snows until they came to the bottom of the hill. Their leader, Maelys, was powerful and not easily deterred. She lifted the curse and built a home atop the skeletons of the dead. She kept their story alive, as a warning to younger Veela. A caution against greed and the foolishness of Mankind.” 

“Foolishness?” Hermione can’t stop herself. “They were under a curse. How is that foolishness?” 

Aline does not look at her. “The curse preyed on their dark urges. It did not nurture anything that was not already there.” 

Aline stops, bringing the group to a halt. She points her chin to the coliseum. “Let them pass,” she says. 

The Veela part, stepping away from the trio at their center. 

“Go,” Aline says, looking to Fleur. “Explain yourself.” 

Fleur takes Hermione’s hand and leads her forward, into the coliseum. 

A Veela awaits them. She is alone, standing tall, peering down her aquiline nose with a cool expression. Her hair is long and blonde, the features of her face very like Fleur’s own. She breaks into a smile, holding out her hands. 

“Fleur,” she says. 

Hermione finds herself dragged forward, Fleur still holding tightly to her hand as she rushes to her mother’s arms, burying her face against her shoulder. Flushing, Hermione tugs, trying to reclaim her hand. Fleur only holds her tighter. 

“It has been too long,” Appoline murmurs, touching her daughter’s face. “I have missed you dearly.” 

“I have missed you,” Fleur says, her voice thick with emotion. She straightens suddenly, drawing Hermione forward. “Maman. This is Hermione Granger.” 

Apolline’s eyes widen as she looks at the flushing witch. She gives her a quick once over, taking in her every detail with a single sweep. 

“Hermione Granger,” she says, stepping closer. She touches Hermione’s face, much like she had Fleur’s, looking deeply into her eyes. 

Hermione freezes. Her throat constricts and her blood turns to ice, flowing sluggishly and painfully through her veins. She feels a feather touch on her skin, Apolline’s fingertips on her jaw. 

“Yes,” Apolline murmurs. “I see it. Like amber and metal.” 

“Maman,” Fleur says, her voice strained. “Don’t” 

Apolline ignores her. “I am sorry, Mademoiselle Granger,” she says, staring into Hermione’s eyes. “You must think me crude. But I must see it for myself, you see. Don’t be frightened. In a moment I will glance away and your body will be yours to command.” 

The moment stretches into an eternity. Apolline’s gaze holds her hostage, her mind probing, brushing against her. But Hermione is not an untrained child. She came through the other side of a war, and she didn’t survive the bloody thing by being ignorant. She slams walls around her mind, the pulse in her throat throbbing, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. 

“Ah.” There is pleasure in Apolline’s voice, admiration. “Adorable. But you can’t think to hide from me, child. I have broken stronger minds than yours.” 

A growl reaches her, low and furious. Hermione feels Asmodeus tensing at her back.

“Now, now, demon,” Apolline chides. “Don’t be hasty.” 

Pain. Apolline pressing, slamming into the walls around Hermione’s mind. Hermione trembles at the force of the onslaught, tears springing to her eyes, the agony of the assault quickening her heart, blurring her vision.

Abruptly, she is pulled away, her gaze ripping from Apolline’s. 

“Enough!” Fleur shouts. “How can you? It is a violation!”

Apolline is unruffled, her gaze cool. “How can I not? This witch, this woman is to be your Ascension. I had to be sure she was the one. You will not have another chance.” 

Hermione’s ears are ringing, her temples throbbing with nauseating force. “What is she talking about?” She asks.

Apolline gives her daughter a look of reproach, face paling with anger. “You have not told her? You bring her here, to our sanctuary. To our home. And you have told her nothing?” 

Fleur’s jaw is locked. “I had not intended it to happen like this. I brought her here because the Ministry tried to kill the demon. I couldn’t think of anywhere else that would be safe.” 

Apolline looks to As. The demon flashes his fangs, tail thrashing the ground. 

“I see,” Apolline says. “Fools. Attempting to destroy such a thing of beauty.” 

For once in his long life, As will not be swayed by flattery. He snarls. 

Apolline sighs. “Speak with the girl, Fleur. I’ll see to the demon.” 

“See to me?” Asmodeus scowls. 

“Hush.” Apolline gives a small smile. “Your witch will be safe, dark one. Tell me, do you like hot chocolate?” 

As meets Hermione’s eyes. She nods and he deflates, losing at least three inches of height. He gives an indifferent wave of his hand. 

“Lead on.” 

Still smiling, Apolline leads the demon away. 

“Hermione - “ 

“Not another word,” Hermione snarls. She opens her mouth, snaps it shut again. She tries to find the right words, but only manages to scowl. 

“Hermione - “

Hermione holds up a hand and Fleur falls silent. Fleur crosses her arms, a glare of her own tightening her lips. 

“May I speak, please?” 

Hermione takes a breath. She counts to ten. Still angry, she counts to twenty. 

“Why,” she says slowly, her voice dangerously quiet, “does everyone but me know what the hell is going on?” 

“I - “

“Why are you hiding things from me?” 

“Hermione - “ 

“What is it? I don’t know you, Fleur. At least, I shouldn’t. We’ve met a handful of times before the day you came to Grimmauld place with Bill. And you walked in and you stole my bloody heart. With a look. With one fucking look. Suddenly, I can’t sleep at night and I care what you think. Me! I care what you think about me. I want you to like me. I want you to want me. I want you to fucking love me! Why? You don’t just wake up one day and fall in love. And it’s all your bloody fault. You arrogant, beautiful asshole!” 

Fleur kisses her. 

One moment she is at full steam, arms waving, hands gesticulating - livid and indignant, stomping away from her. Then there’s a hand on her wrist and she’s spinning, Fleur’s mouth overtaking hers, biting her, her hands burying into her hair. Hermione hangs on for dear life, clutching Fleur’s shirt. 

She has read books. Always, they talk of going weak in the knees, heart beating out of your chest, yearning, longing, heated desire - rubbish. All of it pales in comparison.

Her first kiss was Victor Krum. He was kind, gentle. He tasted like good liquor and smoke over a sleepy lake. His hands were large and rough, but very warm. 

Then there was Ron. A moment of heat, elation, terrified and happy to be alive. He was sloppy but passionate, all of his heart in that kiss. 

None of it touched her. Not like this. 

She feels Fleur, is aware of every inch of her, their mouths parting for breath, coming together again when it becomes too painful to be apart. She feels her tongue and she moans, because she is breaking, rearranging, coming back together like melted glass. She wants to tear her clothes off, to strip herself bare, to wrap her legs around Fleur and take every bit of her, to be completely lost in her. She wants to own her, and to be owned in turn. 

The possessiveness, the feral certainty of the thought startles her and she pulls away, putting a hand on Fleur’s chest to hold her bay, to keep herself from curling against her. 

“I’m sorry,” Fleur says. She’s never been more beautiful, her lips swollen, her eyes wide. “It’s me. You’re feeding off of me.” 

Chest heaving, Hermione tries to clear her mind. “Why?” 

Touching the hand on her chest, Fleur gestures. “Sit?” 

They do, Hermione keeping distance between them, terrified at what she might do if they touch. 

Fleur sits with her elbows on her knees, her hands dangling. “I don’t know where to start.” 

“Try the beginning.” 

Fleur smiles, eyes shining. “Ah, the beginning for you and I? It was the Triwizard Tournament.” 

“What? You never spoke to me. In fact, I don’t think I even existed to you.” 

“You did. From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I wanted nothing more than to fill you life with nothing but wonderful things. But you were fourteen years old, Hermione. The three years between us was like a chasm. It felt like I had too much experience and you had too little. The power imbalance would have been obscene.” 

She doesn’t tell Hermione that the night before the Yule Ball, she cornered Krum in the library and threatened to castrate him if he did a single thing to harm her. And she doesn’t tell her that Ron nearly lost his eyebrows to an “accidental” misfiring of her wand. It was a time of great immaturity and emotional turmoil for her. 

“You didn’t have to snog me,” Hermione comments dryly. “You could have simply spoken to me. ‘Ello Hermione. How are you enjoying ze weather?’ would have been a lovely start. ” 

Fleur smirks at the other’s mimicry of her old accent. She picks at a hangnail. “I couldn't be near you. It was...painful.” 

“But why?” 

“Veela are not Human, Hermione.” 

“Right. The talons and the fireballs didn’t give it away.” 

Fleur gives a soft laugh. “We are close to our bestial nature. We process things differently. We are pack oriented, centering everything around our clan. We are possessive. Territorial. Even one such as myself, one who is not fully Veela, struggles with their nature. We are vicious women on our best days.”

“Are there no male Veela?” 

“None.” 

Hermione clears her throat, a dark flush spreading over her cheeks. “How does that work exactly?” 

“Magic, of course. Traditionally, Veela breed among themselves. But there are those that find their mates outside of our race. And when that is done, the Veela is not full blooded, like myself. But even now, with only a little of the blood, I retain many of the traits of my mother and grandmother. Many of them are dormant for now, and will remain so until I’m mated.” 

“The Ascension.” 

“Yes.” 

“And your mate? Do you choose one?” 

“Some do. But it goes against our nature. Each of us are bound to one soul, it is only a matter of finding that person. And of course, hopefully they are receptive. Some never find their true one, and they choose a mate outside of the bond. Some reject the bond all together, seeing it as an affront to their personal freedom.” 

“Soulmates.” Hermione says it slowly, her gaze thoughtful as she digests. “And you? How do you feel about it?” 

Fleur beams. “I think it is terribly romantic. But then, my parents are soulmates. Their parents and their parents before them.” 

“Is this going where I think it’s going?” 

“And if it were? How would you feel?” 

“Confused. Angry. Elated. Terrified.” 

Fleur laughs. She shifts closer, holding out her hand. “Let me show you.” 

Hermione takes her hand. Their eyes close and she feels Fleur’s mind brush against her own. She aches from Apolline’s earlier assault, but Fleur’s touch is gentle, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand. 

Hermione gasps. She’s back in time, living in Fleur’s mind. She is walking into the Great Hall and the oddest sensation comes over her, ice water running down her spine, a tug in her chest. She turns her head and she is looking at a bushy haired girl. She is awkward and gangly, all knees and elbows and uncertainty. But she has the loveliest eyes and the most beautiful smile and all she wants to do is bask in her light, to have her attention to herself, to be near her. And she knows with calm certainty: that girl is everything.

The memories flip like pages of a book. Seething jealousy at the Yule Ball, masking a bleaker emotion, something cold and melancholy. And at the end of the year, the girl stands with her friends, watching, but not looking at her. How desperately she wants her to look her way. Just for a moment. Just a split second of connection and surely she would feel it, she would know everything. But she doesn’t and her chest feels empty and ruined. 

Gringotts. Bill with his handsome face and his easy smile. How easy it would be to love him. She could see it in him, light so bright it makes her ache. And he’s standing at her flat door, the look on his face desperate, the need there in his eyes too real, too painful.

The Battle of Hogwarts. There is the girl again, but she has changed. She looks hungry and tall, lean and dangerous. There is blood and dirt on her face, but she is smiling and she is alive and it makes her want to weep. But Ron Weasley is holding her hand, that bastard, holding her hand like she is the center of his life.

Then, walking into Grimmauld behind Bill. Her eyes are full of humor, glowing, her smile is kind. She stands and she is near Fleur’s own height. She feels her heart thunder and knows she will never love anyone else the way she loves this woman. It lights her on fire, burns her. She wants to touch her, to know her like no one else does. She wants to be her confidant, her lover, her world. But she is terrified. She is young and she is not Veela. What if she does not understand? What if she doesn’t love her? 

The thought is like a small death, violent and agonizing. 

Fleur lets go of her hand and she comes back to herself. She is lightheaded, the world around her spinning. It takes a moment to orient herself, blinking, the sound of an ocean roaring in her ears. 

“Do you see?” Fleur says, her eyes impossibly sad. 

“Fleur…” She can’t find her breath, her tears burning her eyes. “You were so alone. Why didn’t you tell me? I know I would have tried, tried to understand.” 

Fleur laughs, the sound bitter. “How would you explain this to a fourteen year old girl? A girl who doesn’t even know herself yet, much less what she wants with her life. Would you put that burden on her?” 

No. Never. 

Fleur nods, seeing it in her eyes. “The past does not matter, Hermione. Only what we do with the future.”

“It’s a lot to take in.” 

“I know. I do not expect you to make a decision now. It’s only, with the situation, you have to know. The other Veela...you are unclaimed. They will see you as an opportunity. We are drawn to magic, and even more so powerful magic. It is a base instinct to seek out the best and strongest to, ahem, breed with. And you, Hermione Granger, are very powerful.” 

Hermione winces. “Oh, Merlin. No. Really. I am not ready for that. At all. And I also wouldn’t want anyone but you. Not that there are not some lovely Veelas about, but, ah, no thank you.” 

Fleur smirks, sly. “Anyone but me?” 

“I did not say that.” 

“You did.” 

Hermione bites her lip. “This is a lot. But...can we see where it goes? Go on a date? After we help As, of course. I have some letters to write to the Ministry. The entire thing is absolutely unacceptable. Does your mum have an owl I can borrow?” 

Fleur laughs, leaning over to brush her lips against Hermione’s. It effectively silences the witch.

Hermione melts. “We should definitely work on kissing. I don’t think we have quite the right technique yet.” 

“So studious,” Fleur murmurs. 

She kisses her and her heart is full, her mind bliss.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for the long silence. Obviously I typically update much faster, but the old noodle needed a rest and recharge. Also, Elder Scrolls Online literally sucked me into a dark pit and it took some doing to pull myself back out. 
> 
> But I am back! We should be resuming our regularly scheduled programming. Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I am embarrassed to say that I am prone to typos. My fingers just can't keep up with my brain. I also like to miss things in the editing process as well. So if there is anything appallingly egregious, please let me know. I'm as open to critique as I am the lovely compliments you all leave, otherwise there is no growth. Which is bad, mkaaay? And when I see mistakes after everyone has already read the fucking thing, I twitch myself out of existence from embarrassment. So yell if there is anything stupid in there. 
> 
> I'm really leaving now. Bye!

The sky a hard blue above, Ginny perches on the edge of a chipped lawn chair and eyes a garden gnome sneering at her from behind a hedge. He shows his teeth, raising his middle finger. Ginny snorts and returns the gesture. The little creature huffs and ducks from view, scattering leaves. 

She sighs. Giving a cautious glance over her shoulder, she dips a hand into her bra, retrieving an illicit pack of Muggle cigarettes, courtesy of Bill. 

He introduced them one chilled night in Autumn. There they all were, sloshed out of their minds, kicked back and counting stars. Bill, ever the cool kid, casually slipped the pack from his robes, offering them around. 

“Filthy things,” Harry said, nose wrinkled with distaste. 

“And bad for you,” Hermione agreed, giving her usual wise nod. 

“Give us one,” Ron chimed. 

“Put one here,” Ginny slurred. 

Cigarette dangling from his lip, Bill struck a match, nostrils flaring at the smell of sulfur and fire. 

“They taste best like this,” he explained, lighting each of his siblings’ cigarettes. “Something about the wood.” 

That was the night Ginny began to hate Fleur Delacour. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were huddled together, protected by their impenetrable circle. Harry’s eyes were glowing, Hermione grinning foolishly, Ron staring at her with so much raw want it almost hurt to see it. Ginny and Bill watched them, smoking and swapping a bottle of firewhisky back and forth.

“You think he’ll ever tell her?” Bill asked. 

Ginny considered, smoke curling from her lips. “She knows. And he knows that she knows. But they don’t talk about it. Ron pines and Hermione dances around it. She’s afraid to hurt him and he’s too daft to realize that he’s enough. Birds everywhere, and our brother wants the one that doesn’t want him back.” 

Bill smiled, ruefully. “He’ll see in time. They both have growing to do.”

Ginny was unconvinced, but she didn’t say so, watching the trio with the glow of a cigarette reflecting in her eyes. 

“What about you?” Bill asked. “Love on the horizon?” 

“I’m too young for that. I want to live my life, not be shackled by someone else’s wants and needs.” It’s a lie, well rehearsed. A deflection. The truth is too painful, too real.

“It’s not like that. Not when you’re in love.” 

She hummed. “Right. And you? Does Phlegm make you feel shackled or free?” 

He let out a breath, stubbing his cigarette. His shoulders seemed to slump, his chin dipping into his chest. “There’s nothing there.”

“Liar.” But it’s there on his face, in the creases at the corners of his eyes, leaves him vulnerable and exposed. 

“She doesn’t love me. Can’t.” He took the bottle Ginny passed him, slugging back a deep mouthful. “She’s not Human. She is bound by laws and traditions beyond anything we will ever touch.” 

“Sounds like dragon shit.” 

Bill chuckled, but his heart wasn’t in it, his voice rough. “Veela have soulmates, Gin. And I’m not hers. I’m just a wizard with his heart in his hands.” 

Blinking the memory from her eyes, Ginny lights a cigarette, taking a deep pull. Her jaw clenches and she feels a familiar anger in her stomach, a low burn. 

She could have forgotten Phlegm. Happily, in fact. But then she turned up with Bill, with her perfect face and her stupidly beautiful eyes, and that fucking infuriating confidence. She looked at Hermione, and it was like a rope snapping, a piano plummeting from the sixth story with deadly intent, destiny guiding it to a messy end.

And Hermione looked back! Quiet, earnest Hermione - lips parted, pulse jumping, eyes widening. Hermione who grimaced at the mere mention of romance; Hermione who went pale when Harry hung a tie on his bedroom door; she looked at Fleur and she was caught, her heart a bloody, fluttering thing in Fleur’s palms. 

She’s using you, Ginny wanted to shout. She’s tied to some nameless fucker and you’re only the flavor of the minute, a here and now, not a future, not a commitment. It’s not love, darling, just a conquest.

Ginny closes her eyes. Maybe she’s a bit more like Ron than she would care to admit. Because she very much wants to plant herself between Hermione and that salivating French bitch. She wants to touch Hermione’s lips, to look her in the eyes; she wants Hermione to look at her, to see her, to see everything that has been left unsaid. 

Do you see? she would ask. Isn’t it obvious? It’s you. It’s always been you. Not Harry. You, you stupid woman. 

But there was always someone in the way. Krum. Her own fucking brother. Fucking Phlegm. 

Ginny Weasley. Born to come in last in all things. 

She sighs, bites her lip. 

Self pity now. How fucking boring. 

But her heart, stubborn thing that it is, wants what it wants. And it wrecks her, strands her on a rock in the middle of a dead sea - leaves her there to dream of sweeter days and stolen kisses.

And now! Merlin, but that woman finds trouble wherever she does.

Ginny glances at the Daily Prophet spread out over the patchy grass. There’s a picture of Hermione from 5th year, frown thoughtful, S.P.E.W. badge glinting on her chest, hands waving as she makes some drastic point. 

Golden Girl On the Run, the headline screams. 

Reading further, one would note the vicious relish Rita Skeeter takes in declaring that the war hero is harboring a dangerous creature of mysterious origins, aided by former Triwizard champion Fleur Delacour, a witch of dubious and impure lineage. 

Ginny could scream.

A world away, Hermione watches Apolline with wary eyes. The older woman smiles at her, gestures. 

“It is only a ruin,” Apolline says, tilting her head to look at the structure of ivy and crumbled stone. “Nothing sinister here, young one.” 

Hermione could laugh. The only thing sinister is the Veela with laser eyes and dubious intent. But she steps forward, out from the hot sun and into the cool shade of the somber ruin. She keeps careful distance between herself and Apolline, turning in a circle to examine her surroundings. 

“This is where my clan comes for all things of import,” Apolline says. “Marriage, contracts, promises, all of it sealed in blood and runes. These walls have witnessed a history of oaths and secrets. Can you feel them? It lends the air a certain...presence, don’t you think?”

Hermione drifts forward, her eyes on a deep bowl cut into the floor. There is a drain at its center, black stains around it. 

She licks her lips. “What is this place?” 

“It was long decayed by the time we came,” Apolline says. “But there was always power here. A resonance. An echo of dark deeds and secret history. My ancestors believed it sacred. What those who came before it used it for, well, one can speculate.” 

Her smile is edged, her teeth sharp. Hermione avoids her eyes. 

Apoline laughs, the sound of her dangerous, her throat pale, her eyes bright. “You are right to fear me.” 

“I do not fear you. I simply do not trust you.” 

“Ah. Of course. A witch such as yourself has little fear left, yes?” 

“Not so,” Hermione says, her eyes growing distant, her mind caught on old, violent memories, stuttering around them. “I feel it more keenly than I did before. Before the war. It was all a mad dash then, a reaction to circumstances. Now, I understand what I stand to lose. I want to live, desperately. I want to live and love and experience everything I can. I want to stuff myself with life, I want to overflow with knowledge. So yes, there is fear. It is sharper than ever and very much present. But I do not fear you. In fact, I think I could take you.”

“Arrogance,” Apolline whispers, but her voice is pleased, her lips curled in a smirk. “My magic is ancient, girl. All the knowledge in the world could not stop me from crushing you to a gristly ball of blood and bone.” 

Threat, sharp and bloody tasting in the air. Hermione tenses, her fingertips brushing her wand. 

Apolline laughs again, lips red like blood. She raises her hands, showing her palms. 

“I admire you,” she says. “You are brash, but with a little age, you will be an unstoppable force. A fine addition to my line, I think. Relax yourself, young one. We are to be family, after all.” 

“Why did you bring me here?” Hermione finds herself suddenly weary, drained, a blackness voiding in her mind. 

“To plead a promise of you,” Apolline says. 

“A promise?” 

“I know my Fleur very well. To you, she must seem very gentle, a woman capable of deep love and unbending loyalty. Those things are true of her. But she is also Veela. And Veela are not puppies to be cooed over and stroked. We are warriors. We are infinity. Do you understand?” 

“No.” 

Apolline smiles. “May I tell you a story?” 

Hermione gives a singular nod. 

Apolline brushes down her robes, plucking at the fabric with thin fingers. “Veela were once not so different in their thinking than your Wizards. They valued purity, children born of Veela unions, untainted blood. They were considered the strongest, the brightest of our kind. And it was so for many, many, many thousands of years. But much like your Purebloods, our lines became twisted, birthing sickness and madness. And then a young Veela, Juliette, came upon a wizard dying upon the snows of her homeland. Veela law dictated that she kill him. But when she looked into his eyes, she found herself smote, struck by an emotion so powerful, so commanding that it drove her to her knees. She knew not what it was, only that if she were to murder the man before her, she would perish with him. And so she hid him, nursed him to health. He did not speak her language and she did not speak his, but the language of love is universal, hm? After a time, somewhat predictably, she found herself with child. There was a great outcry from the Veela, rage and betrayal spreading with the ferocity of unchecked flames through the clan.” 

She pauses, something like pain twisting her features. “They slaughtered her. Her, and her mate. They would have murdered her child as well, but for a small spark of mercy burning in the breast of an old Veela. History has left her nameless, but the story goes she was a recluse, a mateless Veela living on the edge of our civilization. She took the child and fled across continents until she came to a small village in France. There, she quietly raised the child to maturity. Her name was Edith. She knew nothing of her history, or of her parents. She loved her little French clan as her own blood. And when war broke out, she bled for them. 

“It was during this fighting that she laid eyes on her mate, a witch on the opposing side. They say she was beautiful, eyes like emeralds, hair like fire. She was a healer, a kind soul ill accustomed to bloodshed and violence. When she was faced with Edith, she should have killed her. But she stayed her hand. And so the cycle began again, secret love, hidden and blooming in silence.” 

Apolline smiles as she looks upon Hermione’s rapt face. “Ah, you hope it will end happily? It did not. They died, murdered, their child orphaned much like her mother before her. But this child grew with the story of her heritage. And when her time came, she sought the leader of a great clan, and she destroyed her, assuming her mantle. With control, she began to forge the links of change. It was not easy, and there was resistance. It was many, many more years, long after she was dead, that perception began to change. Even now, there are some that would shun any but Veela unions.” 

Apolline takes a breath, her gaze intent. “A very long story, and an even bloodier history. I am ashamed to say, our minds were not changed by compassion, but by practicality. You see, once we began to imprint on outside races, the variable of rejection was introduced. A Veela would never reject her mate, understanding the consequences very well. But a Human? A Muggle or a Wizard or Witch? How could they possibly understand? Until the mating bond is sealed, they feel none of the pull we do. Yes, they may love, they may lust, but they are not bound as we are.” 

“What consequences?” Hermione asks. 

Apolline raises a brow, her lips twisting with disapproval. “But of course! Fleur would conveniently forget to mention such things, wouldn’t she?” 

Hermione says nothing, watching. 

Apolline sighs. “It is nothing so dramatic as I am sure you are thinking. We do not die, we do not become ill. But we will never reach our full potential as Veela. The largest, most powerful part of us will forever be locked away from us. And love...well, we can love no other. Think of that, dear one. What would be worse? Death? Or a life without love? A life lived in a dull grey landscape where roses do not bloom and food tastes of ash. A life lived with a permanent loss, the terrifying knowledge that the greatest thing any being can ever experience has been denied you.” 

A breath shudders from Hermione’s lips and she bows her head, her stomach suddenly sick and churning. 

“That is what you hold in your hands,” Apolline says, her voice soft. “Her happiness. Her life. It is a terrible responsibility, is it not?” 

“What do you want?” Hermione can’t look at her, can’t bear to see her face. “The promise you want from me?” 

Silence for a moment, only the sounds of insects in the tall grass, the rustle of ivy leaves in the breeze.

“Do you think you could love her?” Apolline asks. “Is it in you? Truly. Not some selfless sacrifice for her good. You are the type for that. Is your heart hers?” 

“Yes.” It’s out of her before she can think, a fervent admission, the lone word weighted with sure intent. 

Apolline steps into the indention on the floor, holding out a long, slender hand. “Prove it,” she says. 

Hermione takes her hand. 

“A blood promise,” Apolline says, drawing a small, sharp knife from her robes. “Your line to mine, your blood with my blood. And when the time is right, I shall crown you queen of her heart. Do you accept?” 

Hermione nods. 

“So be it,” Apolline murmurs. She draws the thin little blade over the blue veins in her wrist. The blood is quick to come, dark, running down her forearm and drip dripping from her elbow as she does the same to Hermione. She presses their wrists together, their blood glowing gold as it flows together. 

“A gift to you,” Apolline says. “Look into my eyes, child.”

Hermione does, transfixed, blinded by the moment, by the magic throbbing on the tip of her tongue.

Apolline smiles at her, eyes like Fleur’s, a bright, fathomless blue. 

“There,” Apolline says. “Now none may rule you. You have the blood of Veela in your veins. You are one of us. You are my daughter. And so you will never bow again.” 

“What have you done?” 

As if locked in cold honey, Hermione slowly turns her head. Outlined by the sun behind her, Fleur stands at the entrance to the ruins, her eyes black, her hands pale and trembling. 

“What have you done?” Louder now, a snarl ripping from her throat. 

Apolline smiles, serene. “It is the old way.” 

Fleur moves closer. The line of her jaw is rigid, her eyes unblinking. She looks down at the blood on their arms, the spidery lines of it mixing on the stone floor. 

“You’ve taken choice from her,” she whispers, appalled. 

“No,” Hermione says, pulling away from Apolline. She shows her wrist to Fleur, her blood once again red. “It was my choice. I choose you, Fleur. Always.” 

Fleur stares at her, unblinking. She reaches for her, trailing a gentle fingertip over the wound. It heals at her touch, the skin knitting back together seamlessly, leaving only pale, unmarked skin. Her lips part to speak but she chokes, her face twisting, unshed tears shining in her eyes. 

Hermione steps forward, taking her in her arms. She holds her close and presses dry lips to her temple, her own eyes slipping closed. 

Behind them, Apolline watches. Licking the blood from her wrist, she smiles. 

There now, she thinks. Everything as it should be. 

Hermione and Fleur tremble, locked together, their hearts beating a similar rhythm, their breath mingling as the air glows with magic.


	7. Chapter 7

“Harry Potter! Merlin, an honor, sir! A delight!” 

Smile tight, Harry gives a clipped nod. He runs a hand through his hair, shifting uncomfortably as the little wizard beams at him. 

“You have an appointment?” the wizard asks. He peers down at the large book opened across his desk, squinting at the names. “I don’t see your name here.” 

“Er, well, I don’t have an appointment exactly,” Harry says. At his back, Ron grimaces. “It’s rather sudden.”

“Ah.” The little wizard leans forward, dropping his chin into his hand. He peers over the rims of his spectacles, adopting a knowing air. “Miss Granger, is it?” 

Harry lets out a breath. “Yes! It’s only...I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Hermione is a law abiding witch,” Ron chimes in. “Does the hand signals when she’s cycling, wears the luminescent vest, everything. Takes the laws seriously, she does.” 

“Hm,” the little wizard says. “I sympathize, gentlemen, I do. But without an appointment, I’m afraid my hands are bound.” 

Harry flinches as the appointment book slaps shut. “Mr….?”

“Orion! Tibius Orion, Mr. Potter!” 

“Mr. Orion. You followed the war closely?” 

“Oh, indeed.”

“Then I’m sure you’re more knowledgeable than the average wizard or witch on the matter.” 

“Well, my mum always did say a boastful wizard was a prickish wizard, but…” 

Ron coughs into his hand. 

Cutting a look to his friend, Harry wears his best smile. Tibius Orion nearly swoons. He’s just like his pictures! The green eyes, the dark hair, the scar...Merlin swimming in a gravy boat, but he does look dashing. 

Tibius wonders if he looks as good in his birthday suit. 

“Being a knowledgeable wizard,” Harry says, “you know what an important role Hermione played.” 

“Why yes! She was the brains of the trio!” 

Brains or not, Tibius is quite sure that Hermione Granger’s bum doesn’t look nearly as divine in a pair of trousers as Harry Potter’s. Surely, her eyes don’t flash with the same light. And her teeth certainly aren’t as perfect. Merlin, and his lips...

Harry gives a solemn nod. “Then you know that she deserves more than the condemnation she is facing. Have you read the Prophet recently, Mr. Orion?” 

“Dreadful slop,” Tibius pouts. He doesn’t mention he has a picture of Rita Skeeter on his bedside table. 

“They’ve really been dragging her,” Ron comments. 

Tibius considers him. Hair a bit too red, and a freckly thing. But those biceps...Merlin shitting rainbows…

“I won’t mess you about,” Harry says. “I must see the Minister, Mr. Orion. I must speak with him. On Hermione’s behalf.” 

Tibius waves a hand. “Oh, there’s really no need, Mr. Potter. The Minister is in direct correspondence with Ms. Granger. I deliver his mail myself. I dare say all this drama will be cleared before you can say “Rabbit bit the bitter blistering banister.” The Minister has always had a soft spot for you lot, don’t you know.” 

Harry blinks. “Oh.” 

Ron grins. 

“I’ll tell the Minister you stopped by, shall I?” 

“Please do,” Harry murmurs.

Tibius waves goodbye, returning to his books and parchment. 

Walking away, Ron nudges Harry in the side. 

“Think he wanted your knob, mate. Shall I go back and ask if he’s free for a cuppa?” 

“Piss off.” 

Ron snickers. 

Curled on a rug in the Delacour’s library, Asmodeus stares at beautifully colored grey tabby, his teeth bared.

“As…” Hermione glances between the demon and the cat, wary. “Everything alright here?” 

The cat spits, back arching, ungodly yowls cracking from its throat. 

“I will suck the marrow from your bones,” Asmodeus declares. 

“Whoa!” Hermione raises a hand, stepping between the demon and the hissing cat. “Not okay. They’re companions, not food.”

Asmodeus sniffs. “It scratched me.” 

He holds out his hand, pointing at a scratch across his knuckles. “See there? I am mortally wounded.” 

Smirking, Hermione holds his hand in her palms, examining said deadly wound. “What did you do to earn this?” 

“Pulled its tail.” 

“As!” 

“It wouldn’t stop butting its fuzzy little brain cradle against me.” 

“That means she likes you.”

“Oh? I thought it was some bizarre death ritual.” 

Hermione rolls her eyes. “How do you show affection?” 

“By respecting personal space.” 

Hermione kisses his knuckles, relinquishing his hand with a gentle pat. 

He blinks. “Kisses are also acceptable.” 

“That is my cat,” says a quiet voice.

Hermione turns. She finds a pair of large blue eyes peering around the door frame. A young girl slips into the room, bending to scoop the angry tabby into her arms. She is tall for her age, her hair long and blonde, her knees skinny, freckles on her nose. There’s something coltish about her, a bucking, wide eyed energy.

Asmodeus’ eyes narrow. “You.” 

“Me,” the girl deadpans. 

“This one tried to fight me over a cookie,” Asmodeus says, glaring at the girl. 

“Chocolate is my favorite,” the girl says, calming her cat’s spiked back fur. 

Asmodeus growls and Hermione offers a smile. 

“Gabrielle?” She asks. 

The girl gives a solemn nod, meeting Hermione’s eyes. She gives her a critical once over, her lips pursed. “You are Harry Potter’s friend?”

“I am.” 

“And Fleur’s mate.” 

Hermione raises an eyebrow.

Gabrielle snorts, throwing herself into a nearby armchair. “As if I don’t have ears. Hermione this, Hermione that...I hope I am not so intolerable when I find my mate.” 

“I am sure you will be very dignified.” 

“Yes,” Gabrielle agrees. “I will be calm and composed and I will not talk to myself. Do you know Fleur has tried the same dress twice and is still not sure if she likes it?” 

“What color?” 

“Blue.” 

“She will be perfect.” 

Gabrielle smiles suddenly. She springs to her feet, her tabby bouncing away, bushy tail swishing. She takes Hermione’s hand.

“Come to lunch,” she says. “Papa is eager to speak to you. Do not worry. He is not so frightening as Maman.” 

Hermione coughs, her cheeks flushing. 

Gabrielle glares at Asmodeus and the demon sticks out his forked tongue. 

Victor Delacour, Hermione finds, is a small man. He is not traditionally handsome, but his face is pleasant, his eyes kind, and he has the most magnificent beard to ever grace a man’s cheeks. 

“I have special oil,” he confides, eyes twinkling. “It comes from England, can you believe. Ah! Scandalous! A Frenchman using an Englishman’s toiletries. We pride ourselves on excellence, but I must say, none can compare to Wild Skim’s Spiffin Beard Oil!” 

Next to Hermione, Fleur hides a smile behind her wine. Apolline gives her husband an indulgent smile.

Surprisingly, Hermione finds herself falling into a pleasant rhythm with the Delacours. The conversation is light, the food delicious, the wine bountiful and crisp. She feels none of the tension she expected, none of the charge that has hounded her days of late. She allows herself to be lulled, Fleur’s shoulder warm against her own. 

Until the peace of the afternoon is broken by an appearance of Aline. Dark skin burnished in the light, she leans down, her mouth close to Apolline’s ear. 

Apolline listens, her eyes suddenly snapping to Hermione. “I see,” she says. 

Fleur stills, her hand dropping to Hermione’s wrist. 

“It seems you have visitors,” Apolline says, a dangerous light in her eyes. “Shall we see who?” 

Waiting at the bottom of the cobblestone path leading into the village are three familiar faces. Hermione lets out a shout of joy, darting forward into the group, into their waiting arms. 

“Bloody hell,” Ron says, face flushed. “A village full of beautiful women and you didn’t owl me immediately?” 

Harry says nothing, smiling as he touches her hair. 

Ginny is quick to crush her into a hug. She stiffens as Fleur draws close and Hermione tightens her arms, pressing her face into her hair. 

“Please,” Hermione whispers. “Be on your best behavior. I’ll explain everything. Okay?” 

She feels Ginny swallow, nod. Ginny steps away from Hermione reluctantly, her gaze lingering on her face. 

“How?” Hermione asks. “And why?” 

“Kingsley’s secretary has a stiff one for Harry,” Ron says. “I invited him for a round and he told us where the owl was coming from. We thought you could use a few extra wands. Just in case.” 

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Hermione says. “But I am happy to see your faces.” 

Slinking up to the group with his tail twitching, Asmodeus rises to his full height. He puffs his bare chest, ever prideful. “Hullo, Humans.” 

“Merlin’s shitting trousers,” Ron gapes.

“Hell,” Harry says.

“Lovely nipples,” Ginny says. 

“Thank you,” As says, beaming at her. “I’m thinking I’ll get the left one pierced. What do you think?” 

“Ouch.” Harry winces.

“Doesn’t hurt that bad,” Ginny comments. 

Ron turns his astounded face to his sister. 

“What?” she says with a shrug. “That time in Amsterdam.” 

“Ohhhh....” Hermione nods. 

Fleur raises an eyebrow, eyeing Hermione’s chest. 

“Not even,” Hermione says, tone dry. 

“There’s still time,” Fleur says. 

Ron wheezes. 

Standing next to his wife, Victor Delacour claps his hands together. “Come, children! We have wine and food enough for everyone!” 

And so, after hours of conversation and many bottles of wine later, Hermione finds herself leaning against a sun warmed wall, the sun turning the sky umber as it sets. Ginny fidgets next to her, her lip caught between her teeth. 

Fleur’s eyes had been dark as she watched the youngest Weasley slip from the dining room. She caught Hermione’s hand as she moved to follow, her gaze questioning. 

“I think it’s time we had a talk,” Hermione said, giving a soft smile. “She’s my best friend and I’ve neglected her.” 

Fleur sighed. Her every instinct screamed at her to assert her dominance, to establish her claim, but the thought made her queasy. She gave a nod, her eyes flicking away. She nearly melted as she felt Hermione press into her side, her lips soft against her cheek. Sighing, Fleur touched the skin, her fingertips burning, missing the witch’s presence already.

“You’ve been an ass,” Hermione says, watching Ginny pick at hangnail. 

She could kick herself. She wants to be understanding, not confrontational. But she can’t stop the angry little flame in her stomach, the hard knot of defiance. 

“Yeah,” Ginny says. She doesn’t look at her friend, can’t bear to think what she might see in her eyes. “But you don’t know what she’s about, Mione. She’s using you.” 

“She’s not.” 

“She is. Bill told me. She can’t love you, Mione. She’s meant for someone else.” 

“No.” 

“Fucking hell.” Ginny looks at her then, allowing anger to color her face. “Veela have soulmates, Mione. Anyone else is just an appetizer. Don’t you see? She’ll only break your heart. Like she did Bill.” 

“Ginny -”

“And frankly,” Ginny steels herself, gathering her reserves of courage, her tongue suddenly fumbling over her words. “I think you can do better. She is beautiful, sure. But she doesn’t know you. I know you. And - and I would like very much to take you on a date.” 

Ginny holds her breath, her eyes closing, her chest burning. 

Hermione’s heart shatters. She presses her hands to her mouth, pain so sharp that it numbs her, turns her fingers cold, sets her teeth chattering. 

“Gin -” 

Ginny’s face crumples, like a piece of balled parchment burning in a fire, curling in on itself. 

“Fuck.” Ginny says. She knows. She feels it, like flesh separating from bone. 

“Why have you never said?” Hermione whispers. 

“There was always someone else. And, well, you thought of me as a little kid. Until you didn’t. And then I was your friend. It felt like a betrayal, wanting you like that. I would look at you and want to kiss you and I felt so ashamed. Because you didn’t know.”

“Gin. What the fuck?” The pain recedes, replaced by anger. “How long?” 

Ginny mumbles.

“What?” Hermione’s brow creases, her voice suddenly hoarse. 

“Since my second year.” 

“For fuck’s sake!” 

“I know.” 

“All that time. And not a word.” 

“I felt...guilty. Like I was violating you somehow by keeping it a secret. And then it just became comfortable, pretending. It was easier than saying it out loud.” 

“You angsty bitch.” 

Ginny gives a small smile, her eyes shining. 

“And you took it out on Fleur.” 

“Because it was so effortless for her! She walks in with her perfect self and people just fall over her. You. You fucking fell for her. I know it’s wrong and selfish, but fuck. I was just so fucking down and every time I looked at her I got so angry and I just wanted to kick her ass.” 

“Pretty sure she can shoot fire balls from her palms.” 

“Fuck. Really?” 

Hermione nods. 

“Cool,” Ginny admits. 

“Right?” 

“Can she do that bird transformation thing?” 

“I dunno...I should ask.” 

“You should.” 

They fall silent. 

Hermione wants to touch her friend, to mend her heart, to take her pain. She wants to cool her heated skin, to ease her soul. 

But it’s not meant to be. Not in this life. 

“What you said,” Hermione says. “About soulmates? I’m hers.” 

Ginny’s stare is hard, intense. “Are you sure?” 

Hermione nods. 

Ginny’s jaw is smooth stone as she stares at the setting sun. “Well, that’s it then.” She curses suddenly, scuffing the ground with her shoe. “Bill knew. He fucking knew. All this time.” 

“Fleur was honest with him.” 

“How lovely of her.” Ginny sighs at the dark look Hermione shoots her, raising her hands in defeat. “Sorry. I’m trying not to be petulant. But I’m a bit of a brat.” 

“Can we move past this? Is it possible for you?” 

Ginny doesn’t hesitate. “Fuck yeah. Can I be a bridesmaid?” 

Hermione laughs and Ginny grins. 

Sobering, Ginny gives a sigh. “I can’t turn it off, you know. But I can move beyond it. Maybe I can be less of a twat.” 

“That would be deeply appreciated.” 

Ginny clears her throat. “So have you two…?”

“What?” 

Ginny makes Vs of her index and forefingers, joining them together aggressively. She raises a suggestive eyebrow. 

Hermione pales. “You’re so gross.” She pauses, frowning thoughtfully. “Wait, is that how you do it?” 

Ginny cracks up, laughing so hard that she doubles over, clutching her stomach. Hermione watches her wryly, unimpressed. 

“I think you can, actually,” Ginny says finally, dashing tears from her eyes with her palms. “It looks uncomfortable, though. Like, I think finding a rhythm would be difficult. You could be hitting the right spot for yourself and she could be left out in the cold looking for hers.” 

Hermione groans. “I need books for this.” 

Ginny howls. “Merlin, can you imagine? Excuse me sir, can you tell me where your lesbian sex position section is, please?” 

“I’m sure I can find it on my own,” Hermione grumbles, arms crossing. 

“We should ask Parkinson. I heard she and Cho Chang had a thing after Hogwarts.” 

Hermione’s jaw falls open. “They didn’t.” 

Ginny shrugs. “Shall I send her an owl? I’m sure she could draw you a map.” 

“I will murder you.” 

They laugh, gravitating, orbiting, coming together finally with a gentle brush of fingers. Holding hands, they watch the sky bleed purple, listening to the laughter behind them, the sound of crickets humming in the grass.


	8. Chapter 8

There is the dilemma of the single bed. 

Mind fogged, her lips tingling, skin burning hot, Hermione stares down at the bed. On another night, she would have folded happily into it, burying her nose in the pillows, snuggling her body deep into the duvet. But on this night of all nights, she is acutely aware of the warmth lingering behind her, the stir of breath on her neck. 

“Is this okay?” 

Merlin, her voice. It’s husky and roughened with wine.

Hermione shivers. She knows Fleur feels it, can feel the satisfaction rolling off her. 

“It’s okay.” She hates how quiet her own voice is, the uncertainty that tinges it, like a gasoline rainbow in a puddle. 

Fleur passes her, shrugging out of her clothes with a casual confidence that leaves Hermione uncertain and flighty, her fingers plucking at the collar of her shirt. 

Fleur turns to her, her eyes bright even in the darkness. Hermione swallows thickly, willing herself not to look down, not to allow her eyes to drift over that bare expanse of skin. Her face grows hot, unbearably so, her cheeks burning, something she recognizes as desire uncoiling low in her stomach. 

It’s too much, she thinks, her mouth dry. But not enough. She is a supernova, a ball of cosmic energy, unstable and bright, a burning fire in the night sky. 

“You’re shaking,” Fleur murmurs, taking her hands. 

Her nearness, the heat emanating from her skin, is nearly unbearable. Hermione desperately tries to still her hands, to even her shuddering breath.

She wants to cry. 

Shame, hot, plain and brutal, burns her. What did she think? Silly her. How can she compare? She is inexperienced, ordinary. She isn’t even beautiful. She is a scarred, blemished thing. There is hate carved into her arm. Her arms are too skinny, her chest too flat. Her lips are dry, her hips are too fucking wide.

How could she be so stupid? To kneel at the altar of love and hope to be loved in return. Who would love her? Romance is not for plain, bookish women. Passion is not for the unextraordinary. She is too normal, too average, and too fucking scared. 

“Hermione. Stop.” 

Fleur can feel her, every painful throb of her heart, every hateful thought she bruises herself with. It frightens her, the ferocity with which Hermione lashes herself. It appalls her, stuns her to disbelief.

She takes her face in her hands, forcing her to look into her eyes. 

“Please,” Fleur says. 

“I hate feeling like this,” Hermione whispers. Fleur chases the tears that slip from her eyes, catching them on her thumbs. 

“Let me show you,” Fleur says. 

Panic flares in Hermione’s eyes and Fleur hushes her, brushing their lips together. 

“No, my love. Nothing like that. We couldn’t even if you wanted to. Once we are together in that way, the Veela in me will demand I claim you. It is irrevocable. And not entirely painless.” 

“Oh,” Hermione says. 

“A conversation for another time.” 

Fleur touches the hem of Hermione’s shirt, a question in her eyes. A tear slipping down her jaw, sliding down her throat, Hermione nods. 

“We are like animals in our love,” her mother had explained. 

Sitting on the edge of her seat, her mate’s face still fresh in her mind, Fleur had listened with keen rapture, taking every word and carefully wrapping it, storing it in the safest, softest part of her memory. 

“With another Veela,” Apolline continued, hiding her smile, “it is not so terribly important. But with Humans, you must remember to always be gentle. Our bones are denser than theirs and you must curb your strength. It is easy to be consumed by passion and allow our instincts to guide us. And perhaps your partner will enjoy this. But you must always maintain control. When you are mated, things will be different. Her body will adapt to yours. Until then, you must treat her as a precious thing, as if she is sand and you the glass that holds her.” 

And so Fleur does. With soft breaths and careful hands, she undresses her. 

Hermione’s arms raise, almost as if of their own accord, disconnected from her brain, her shirt brushing over her skin as it skims up her arms, touches her hands as it comes away. Fleur spreads her palms over her ribcage, sliding their skin together as she reaches behind her, unlatching her bra. The garment falls and Fleur sighs, her hands spreading over the warmth of Hermione’s shoulder blades, tracing down her spine.

“You’re so warm,” Hermione whispers, her eyes closed. 

Fleur sees the scar, that hateful word. Her blood boils at the sight of it, something inside her tearing and screaming and mourning. But she doesn’t touch the ragged skin, sliding her hand instead over Hermione’s chest, in between her breasts, down her stomach. 

Fleur watches her face intently as she unbuttons her jeans. Her eyelashes are soft, flickering against her cheeks, her lips parted. Slowly, mingling their breath, she presses her hands between the fabric and Hermione’s hips, dragging it down, underwear and all. She kneels, a hand cupping her calf as she helps her step from the tangle of clothes. She looks up at her, meeting her eyes as the witch looks down at her, and there is nothing else. There is only this moment. Her own vulnerability kneeling at the feet of the woman she loves, and that very woman realizing her own power, her own beauty. It’s there for her to translate, burning in Fleur’s eyes, throbbing between her legs. 

“Fuck,” she says, transfixed. 

Fleur smiles and it’s pure sex. Hermione blinks, her hands clenching, her body light, her mind heavy with thoughts of sheets and bare skin and slick thighs. 

Maybe she won’t need those books after all. 

Hermione kneels with her, unwilling to blink, afraid for even a second to slip by her. 

“Show me,” she says. 

Fleur’s eyes close. She bites her lip, tasting blood, thick and and coppery on her tongue. 

Control. She must stay in control. She must master herself, subjugate her base instincts.

But it’s so bloody hard. Hermione’s proximity makes her feel raw, a fierce thirst coming over her, a need for something, something more primal than what she intends. 

Fingers touch her collarbone, tracing the ridge of bone, dipping into the hollow of her throat, feeling the sweat beading on her skin. 

Fleur opens her eyes. Hermione’s face is vulnerable in the dim light filtering through the window, uncertain, afraid. 

“More,” Fleur says.

Hermione exhales, spreading her palm across Fleur’s chest, over her heart. She marvels at the frantic beat of it, the liquid thud against her hand. She shudders to imagine that chest still, that heart quiet, the skin cold. It’s terrible to think, sends her own heart hammering, her throat closing. For a moment, she is blinded by potential loss, the uncertainty of the future. It horrifies her, to think that there will be a time when this beautiful soul no longer speaks and laughs and loves. To imagine she might never see her again, that eternity and higher powers could be so cruel as to give love only to leave you cold and alone, drifting among silent stars forever without the light of the most precious part of you.

“No,” Fleur says, closing her fingers over Hermione’s wrist. “Here and now. Nothing else matters.” 

“Can you hear me? What I think?” 

“Impressions only.” 

“Was it always like that for you?” 

Fleur nods. 

Hermione’s heart aches. “Oh, Fleur. I am so sorry.” 

Fleur says nothing. She kisses her. Cupping her face, she dips her tongue into her mouth, desperate for a tangible connection, anything to bind them, to ground them. Holding her hips, Hermione kisses her back, tilting her head to angle deeper. 

No, Fleur thinks. You can’t. Pull away you fool!

But she tastes so good and her mouth is warm and wet, her tongue eager to learn and explore. The early fumblings of clashing teeth and misaligned lips are gone, replaced by a sensuous dance, an ease of touch, quickly acclimating to one another, wanting more and more. 

It can never be enough. She knows that with cold certainty, a hungry knowledge that only makes her more desperate, her hands frantic, her breath coming harshly. 

They can’t get close enough. Pressed together, as close as their bodies will allow, and still it’s not enough. There is too much flesh and blood separating them. Fleur wants to be inside her, as intimate as the beat of her heart, as much a part of her as the blood in her veins. 

There is only one way. 

Hermione is eager for it, a rare display of aggression coming over her. She straddles Fleur’s hips, pressing her wrists into the floor, their mouths caught together. She wants whatever the other can give her. She wants everything. She wants to be eclipsed. She wants to bow to this woman, to worship her. She wants to belong to her, and in turn to own her. It terrifies her, the feral need of it, the loss of self, the loss of reason. But it exhilarates her, a fire out of control, consuming everything with a roar of heat and flame and destruction, black trees burning, the sky above the color of blood.

Fleur flips her, her mouth latching onto her neck. Her back pressed into the floor, she feels Fleur between her legs, her teeth biting into the tender skin over her pulse. Elation, sharp joy sings through her, arches her back.

This is it. The final moment.

And then Fleur is gone. 

The separation is painful, a ball of agony ripping through her guts, clawing her bloody. She cries out, curling around it, biting her tongue. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Fleur’s voice is broken glass, her hands burning as they touch Hermione’s back. “Fuck, I didn’t know it would hurt you like this.” 

It is greater than her own pain, a void of darkness and rusted metal. It is a bitter winter, a frozen lake on bare skin, so cold that it burns.

Hermione groans, her teeth grinding together, threatening to shatter under the pressure of her jaw. 

Fleur rips the duvet from the bed, quickly wrapping the witch, shielding her skin from her own. She pulls her into her lap, careful not to touch her bare skin, rocking her, pressing her own teary face into Hermione’s duvet covered shoulder. 

The loss of Hermione is like a gaping wound, bloody and feverish, the edges of it cold. She wants to sob, to scream. 

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t know this would happen.” 

“It’s okay.” Hermione’s teeth are chattering, her muscles spasming. “It was worth it.” 

Fleur laughs, the sound ripped from her chest, painful but bright and clean. She laughs, tears streaming over her cheeks. 

Shivering, Hermione pokes a hand from the duvet, laying her cool palm on Fleur’s cheek. They both moan at the contact, pain and pleasure like tangling like familiar lovers, intimate and conflicting, a war of sensation. 

“I think,” Hermione mumbles, “we should stick to light petting. Until we’re truly ready for the rest.”

“Tongue, though?” 

“Oh, definitely.” 

Fleur chuckles. Drained, she stretches out on her side, drawing Hermione close to her chest, wrapping her arms and legs around her. 

“Is this too much?” She asks. 

“It’s perfect,” Hermione murmurs. 

And it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm incredibly proud of this little chapter. It's not very long compared to the others in this fic, but I think it packs twice as much to say
> 
> Stephen King says that a writer should have just as much fun writing as the the reader reading. I have had an absolute blast writing this! I've giggled at the corny jokes, smirked at Ginny when she's a dick, and I've wanted more than once to cram Hermione and Fleur in a tiny closet and make them bang it out. But this particular chapter is close to my heart. I think a lot of us read these fics because it's a nice departure and distraction from reality. We love these characters and the worlds they inhabit and it's a relief to know that no matter what transpires, everything will work out in the end. The characters are perfect; not worrying if their thighs are too fat, their teeth too crooked, fucking stretch marks and blemishes and morning breath - I'm not sexy enough, smart enough, I'm too goddamn awkward and weird. But, nothing and no one is perfect, and that is where true beauty lies. We'll always think we're ugly when we're beautiful, or unfunny when we're hilarious, or untalented when there is so much you have to offer. Point is, it's okay to be insecure, or afraid of losing things that are important to you. The world being in the state it is, it's okay to want a story where the good guys win and ride off into the sunset.
> 
> Whew. Heavy. If you bothered reading this little diatribe, thank you and bless your damn beautiful heart. And if you feel even a sliver of what I felt writing this chapter, you've made me an incredibly happy and proud woman.
> 
> Be kind to yourself and others, folks. Also, Happy Hump Day!


	9. Chapter 9

Time passes quickly. 

Drenched in sun, tongues fuzzy with wine, the little group of friends finds themselves in the center of a Veela Fertility festival. 

“Bloody hell,” Ron said, eyes glazed. “Does that mean…?”

Fleur’s eyebrows arched, her lips pursed. “Yes?”

Ron stuttered. 

“It is a celebration of life and the lives to be,” Apolline explained, taking pity on the flushing young man. 

“What are you expecting?” Ginny asked. “Orgies in the streets?” 

Coughing, Ron examined his shoelaces. 

“Ridiculous,” Fleur snorted. “We only orgy for Samhain.” 

Ron choked. 

The Festival turns out to be a lively affair, the little village gathering in the narrow streets, talking and dancing. There is music, an impromptu game of Quidditch above the bright fields. Market stalls are set out selling food and drink and souvenirs. 

Face to the sun, Hermione turns as she feels a tap on her shoulder. Aline gazes at her with a solemn face. She inclines her head slightly, a hand raising to nervously brush the back of her neck. 

Hermione smiles quizzically. Aline shifts, clearing her throat. 

“Miss Granger,” she says. 

“Hermione.” 

“Hermione. Your friend, the red headed one.” 

“Well, there are two.” Hermione smiles. 

“The woman.” 

“Yes.” 

“Her eyes are very beautiful.” 

Grinning, Hermione crosses her arms. “Yes, they are.” 

Expression thoughtful, Aline turns her own dark eyes to find Ginny in the crowd. 

“Is she attracted to women?” Aline asks. 

“I don’t believe gender is important to her.” 

“Good. What is her favorite flower?” 

Hermione grins. “Peruvian Lilies. I would suggest pink if you can find it.” 

“Thank you, Hermione.” Aline pauses, turning her gaze to the smirking witch. “May I ask an awkward question?” 

Hermione nods. 

“She watches you very closely. Are you lovers?” 

Hermione laughs, quickly catching the sound with her fingers. “She’s all yours, Aline.” 

The Veela gives a relieved sigh, turning to go. 

“Aline?” 

“Yes?” 

“Her name is Ginny. And she absolutely adores chocolate.” 

Aline flashes a rare smile, her teeth very white, her eyes dancing. She slips quietly into the crowd, her gaze fixed on a certain laughing redhead. Hermione watches Ginny turn, her eyes raising to meet with Aline’s. There is a moment of tension, Ginny stiffening, Aline hesitating. And then suddenly Ginny is grinning. Eyes fixed on Aline, she ignores Ron as he speaks to her, tossing back the remainder of her drink. Shoulders squared, chin out, she makes her way towards Aline, pressing through the crowd with ease. 

Hermione cheers. She blushes as curious eyes turn her way, shrinking into herself, quickly slipping away among the market stalls. 

Fleur finds her some time later, teetering between Harry and Ron. The trio are loudly drunk, weaving, their arms around each other’s shoulders. They are singing a bawdy tune, Asmodeus strumming a pilfered lute. 

“When we go to the beach for a swim,” they sing out of tune, “people remark on the size of our quim. You can bet your bottom dollar, it’s like a horses collar.” 

Fleur curses, her face whitening. 

“Our mistress you cannot beat,” they continue. “She lets us go walking in the street. We sell our titties for threepenny bitties -”

Hermione shouts suddenly, spotting Fleur choking on her spit. She gives a happy grin, Ron and Harry shouting with her. 

“Flooooooor,” Ron slurs.

“It’s Fleur, you horse’s ass,” Hermione snaps. 

“S-s-s-sorry. ‘Lo, Fleurrrrr.” 

Harry giggles. Asmodeus plucks a lute string. 

“Hermione,” Fleur says. “You are drunk.” 

“As a skunk,” Hermione says happily. 

“Skunks drink?” Harry asks. 

“When in France,” Asmodeus croons. 

Ron snickers. He belches loudly. “Anyone want chips?” 

“Oh, tha’ would be lu-luvely.” Hermione’s eyes glaze. 

“Yer off yer face,” Harry says. 

Hermione giggles, hiccupping. 

Unimpressed, Fleur’s arms cross. “Gentlemen.” 

Ron blinks. Harry burps into his fist. 

“Release the witch,” Fleur says, a deadly gleam in her eye. 

Staggering, lurching the others with him, Ron waves an admonishing finger in the Veela’s face. 

“Who-who are you? We’ve nurshed thish woman through moor hangovers than ya can count with yer fingers an’ yer bloody toeses.” 

“Right!” Harry chimes in. “Pish off!” 

“Oop.” Eyes widening, Asmodeus, ducks his head. 

Hermione groans. 

“Wadder!” Ron yells. “Tha’s wut we need. Right, mate?” 

“Whisky,” Hermione says. 

“Nahhh,” Harry says. “Wa.Ter.” 

“Harry Potter, I will hex the eyebrows off your drunken skull if you do not let go of Hermione,” Fleur warns. 

“Aw, fug,” Harry says. 

“Feckin’ try me!” Ron shouts. 

It all happens so quickly that none can say with surety the sequence of events or even the exact spell Fleur casts. But the outcome is plain. The sun at its highest point, the festival at its merriest, the Veela and their mates and children hear what they at first believe to be a woman screaming. Alarmed, they turn en mass, watching as a faint figure comes charging down the street, bare feet slapping against the stone. As the figure comes closer, they see it is a man. A very naked, freckled man. His skin is flushed red, his fiery hair standing up in slick spikes. Following behind him like a line of ants is a colony of garden gnomes. They are shouting furiously, knives clenched between their sharp teeth, waving adorably tiny forks. They jab at Ron’s heels, said Weasley yipp yelping, panting over his shoulder as he runs. 

And there...Is that the Boy Who Lived? He is sweating, gasping for breath as he chases after his friend, arms pumping frantically. He yells unintelligibly, glasses askew. 

Watching from the crowd, Ginny holds Aline’s hand. 

“Those are your friends?” Aline asks. 

Ginny sighs. “I hope you like big families. Big, crazy families.” 

Aline’s smile is brilliant. “I am Veela. I adore large families.” 

Ginny squeezes her hand. “Oh, luv. Bless your heart.” 

The next morning finds the Golden Trio pale and drawn, dark circles under their eyes. Ron limps. Harry tries in vain to flatten his hair. Hermione winces, the sun too bright. Fleur smirks. She pulls a small mirror from her robes, checking her lipstick. Asmodeus gives his scales a smooth. Ginny attempts to drag her thoughts away from a certain dark eyed Veela, and fails miserably. She gives a happy sigh. 

Apolline claps, giving a toothy grin as Hermione, Harry, and Ron flinch. She produces a very old, rusted teapot with a flourish.

“There,” she says. “To return you to your dreary England.” 

Fleur sighs. How the rain drags on her soul. 

“You will come back.” Apolline’s eyes are on Hermione. 

Hermione gives a nod. 

“Then I wish you a safe journey.” 

The group looks away as Apolline and Fleur step together, hugging and whispering. 

Ron tips his head back to look up at Asmodeus. 

“Mate. Do you not wear pants?” 

“They’re very tight on my...tail.” 

“I had a tail once.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Mhm. Goat tail. I sympathize.” 

Goodbyes said, Fleur rejoins the group. They press together, shoulder to shoulder, each laying a finger on the teapot. The rusted thing begins to glow and the Veela village disappears with a warp of color. 

They are deposited onto a swampy field. Grimacing at their sodden robes, they break off into pairs; Fleur with Hermione, Harry and Ron together, Ginny reaching for Asmodeus. Another crack and a skull screaming bend through space, and they come to the Ministry’s bustling Apparition point. 

The walk to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is a long one. They make slow progress through the crowd, many witches and wizards turning to gape at Asmodeus’ massive frame. The demon, thankfully, remains on his best behavior, nose in the air, tail curled over his forearm. 

Waiting for them is Jedediah Crumb, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Crumb watches with watery eyes, dragging his tongue over his chapped lips. Kingsley gives a nod of greeting, his attention immediately arrested by Asmodeus. 

The demon draws himself to his full height. 

“I am Asmodeus,” he says, his voice rumbling. He gives a quick glance to Hermione. “And I am pleased to be here.” 

Hermione breathes a sigh of relief. Now is certainly not the time to mention devouring men or drinking fire. 

Kingsley extends a hand. “A pleasure. I am the Minister of Magic. My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt.” 

“Sir,” Crumb says, eyeing Kingsley’s offered hand. “Perhaps you shouldn’t touch it.” 

Asmodeus takes Kingsley’s hand in his own, giving it a firm grip and a quick shake. Grinning, Kingsley goes down the line of the group, shaking each hand in turn. 

Pausing when he reaches Hermione, he gives a deep, booming laugh. 

“Miss Granger,” he says. “I can always depend on your ethics. Please accept my apology. I can’t excuse hasty decisions, but I can correct them.” 

Crumb frowns. 

“As is not a danger,” Hermione says. “In fact, he is eager to make a go of a new life. He has never had freedom for himself, you see.” 

“I’d love to work in a tea shop,” As adds.

Crumb sputters and Kingsley laughs. 

“My terms are simple, Miss Granger,” Kingsley says. “I’ll allow it if you’re willing to sponsor him. But he must register himself, and he will make regular appointments with our Ministry to discuss his progress. We will monitor him closely. Indefinitely.” 

“Sir,” Crumb says, his mustache twitching. “This a demon, sir. A demon. You can’t possibly mean to -” 

“I expect your resignation on my desk by the end of the work day,” Kingsley says, looking at Crumb with cold eyes. “You’ve made us look like fools, Crumb. How can the public trust a government so eager to kill rather than converse?” 

Crumb gapes, his mouth opening and closing. 

“Thank fuck,” Ron mumbles, rubbing his face. “Can we go? I’m dead on my bloody feet.” 

The familiarity of her room in number 12 Grimmauld place is a soothing balm to Hermione’s steaming brain. She falls face first into her bed, groaning into the pillows. 

The mattress dips and she feels Fleur’s hands pulling off her shoes, running up her legs to rub circles over her back. She moans at the touch, too weak to raise her face. 

“Sleep,” Fleur whispers into her ear, warm against her side.

She does, chasing the darkness behind her eyes. 

She wakes a time later and the room is nearly dark, only the faint glow of streetlights filtering through her window. There is warmth against her front, a smooth shoulder touching her lips. She smiles, pressing her face between Fleur’s shoulder blades. 

“Welcome back,” Fleur murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. 

Hermione gives a soft chuckle, touching Fleur’s hair. She plays with the ridge of her ear, laughing aloud when Fleur turns her head, nipping playfully at her fingertips. 

Fleur flips onto her side, bringing their faces close. 

“What now?” Hermione asks. “Is there an order things go in? I feel like we’ve mixed it all up.” 

“Ah, I see. You would like a list?” 

“It could be helpful.” 

Fleur brushes their noses together. “Okay. First I’ll kiss you. Very passionately. Then I will make my way down those rickety stairs and I will find the kitchen. I will make us a snack. Something sweet. Then I will take your clothes off and I will kiss you again. And then we will have shower.” 

“And tomorrow?” 

“I will take you to have the most delicious omelette. It will melt your mind.” 

“And after?” 

Fleur smiles. “Why, happily ever after, of course.” 

Hermione kisses her.


	10. Chapter 10

2 Years Later

True to form, Hermione is late. 

Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, her hair wild. There is ink on her fingertips, a dash of it on her cheek. She fans herself with a sheaf of parchment, huffing. 

“Do not be late,” Fleur said that very morning, holding her by the shoulders. “You know my mother is impatient. And Gabrielle…” She cursed. 

“Yes, yes,” Hermione said. “I’ll be sharpish, love.” 

Fleur’s lips pursed and she let out a soft laugh. She knows her witch very well. She has already rehearsed it in her mind, what she will say as her mother frowns and Gabrielle sighs. 

They married a week prior. Not a Veela wedding, mind. A lovely get together for the Wizarding side. Fleur found it terribly romantic, her heart big with pride, her stomach full of butterflies. She nearly melted seeing their friends and family gathered, their faces happy, their voices a harmony together. Watching Hermione walk toward her, her father holding her arm, her eyes watering, her smile the biggest, most beautiful thing - Fleur felt faint, her heart fluttering, her palms sweating. 

And the dance...ah, it is her most cherished memory. Hermione in her arms, she felt very young, sure of the future, sure that she would love this woman until the universe winked from existence, and perhaps even after that. 

They parted reluctantly that night, their fingers catching, slipping apart. 

Cheek pressed into her door frame, sad eyes on Fleur, Hermione had sighed. 

“Are you sure?” She asked. “Not even for a minute?” 

Fleur swallowed, taking a steadying breath. 

“We cannot. We must perform the ritual.” 

“A kiss goodnight?” 

“Non.” She knows herself. She is weak, easily tempted. “Soon.” 

Giving her wife a long look, Hermione sighed. 

“You’re going to be making this up to me,” she said. “Furiously.”

She closed the door and Fleur sighed, pressing her forehead to the cool wood. 

And now, on the day of days, the true beginning of the rest of their lives, Hermione rushes, slamming parchment into drawers. She swings her robes over her shoulders, her wand between her teeth. Stowing it, she fumbles over her desk for the portkey. 

Looking at it, she rolls her eyes. It is a small knick knack, a mewling kitten holding a bunch of daisies to its pink nose. 

It warms in her hand and she feels herself twisted, realigned. A heartbeat later and she is blinking, shielding her eyes against a high noon sun. She finds herself standing outside a familiar Veela village, the shadows of it long on the ground. 

It doesn’t take her long to find the ruins. It is a quick walk over the field, following a well walked path through the trees. She comes on it and it is silent, darkness inside. 

Fleur and her mother and sister wait inside. 

“Why so much...company?” Hermione had asked. 

“Maman will bind us. And Gabrielle will be our witness. Are you shy, you prudish English witch?” 

“No,” Hermione said, but she was smiling, her cheeks reddening. 

Fleur kneels in the indentation in the floor. She is without clothes, her skin glowing in the sun breaking through the broken roof. She looks up as Hermione approaches, her eyes very dark, her lips parted. 

Apolline nods. Gabrielle gives a quick smile, reaching out to help Hermione shrug from her robes. Self conscious, feeling graceless and vulnerable, Hermione toes off her shoes. She makes quick work of her shirt and pants, grimacing as her underthings join the pile. Though the air is hot, she shivers, goosebumps raising over her arms and back. 

Apolline gestures with a nod of her chin and Hermione kneels. Fleur reaches for her and she gratefully accepts her touch, taking comfort from her nearness. 

“Our vows are not words,” Apolline says. “We bind ourselves with blood and magic. But for you, dear girl, I will explain.” 

Hermione nods. 

“There will be pain,” Apolline says. “Were you a Veela, it would be a simple affair. But you are Human and your body is weak. The magic will strengthen you, but it will not be an easy process. You must not struggle. If you resist, it will kill you. Do you understand?” 

Hermione nods, eyes wide. 

Fleur touches her cheek. “Are you sure?” 

“It’s a bit late, isn’t it?” 

“Never.” 

Hermione takes a breath, steadying herself. She raises her eyes to Apolline. 

“Please,” she says and Apolline nods. 

They cut their palms, a wound to each hand. Bright blood trailing down their forearms, they tangle their fingers, locking their hands together. Humming, Apolline binds their wrists together with silver chains. They are heavy and cold against their skin, so tight that the metal bites into them. 

Their blood mixes and it is then that she feels it. It is unobtrusive to begin, a brush of a finger down her spine. She meets Fleur’s eyes, watching her pupils grow, eating away the blue. Fleur says her name and she begins to respond, freezing as a fist grips her heart, squeezing, turning it to pulp. She gasps, her teeth sinking into her lip, splitting it, blood swelling over her tongue. 

Pain. Apolline warned her, but she could not have prepared her. It is under her skin, flaying her, twisting her insides, grating her bones together. It crushes her, smashes her rib cage, splintering her skull into her brain. It builds inside her, steady, increasing, an explosion of agony obliterating her very existence. There is nothing outside of herself, nothing but the fire, the tearing of her tendons. 

When it is done she is left shivering and bleeding, her body slick with cold sweat despite the heat burning through her. She finds herself gasping, looking into Fleur’s panicked eyes, their hands gripping one another with bruising strength. 

Gabrielle moves to stand behind Fleur, Apolline behind Hermione. They hold crowns, old and tarnished, gilt with golden runes. 

“You are one,” Apolline says. She places the crown on Hermione’s head, her fingers lingering on the glowing runes. 

Fleur gasps, her body tensing as her own crown touches her head. She meets Hermione’s eyes, a look of shock and awe coming over her, her expression disbelieving. She swallows, her throat bobbing. There is a tear,, her shoulders wrenching and her face twists with pain.

Hermione stares, mouth open, eyes filled with a beauty. 

Wings sprout from Fleur’s shoulders, arching proudly in the air. They are massive and bright, covered in millions of small, bright scales. 

“Holy shit,” Hermione says. 

They laugh, the absurdity of her words strange in that sacred place. They laugh and shake, tears tracking over their cheeks. Hermione presses her face into Fleur’s neck, touches her lips to her skin. 

When, finally, they catch their breath and pull apart, they are alone and the chains that bound them are on the floor. 

Tracing her fingers over Hermione’s shoulders, Fleur tries to find her words. She wants to say something, something that feels right, anything to express the pure, bright joy in her heart, the fluttering elation in her chest. But she finds herself dry mouthed and humbled, unable to speak. 

So instead, she shows her. Twining together like the runes on their crowns, they move together, falling into an ancient, primal dance.


	11. Epilogue

“Fuck.” 

Hermione’s gaze snaps up, sharpening on her oldest. 

“What was that?” 

Adam smiles sweetly, batting his pale eyelashes. “Ducks, Mum. I can’t wait to see the ducks.” 

She gives him a look. The Look. The Look that says, “I’m onto your shit, tiny spawn of mine, but I don’t have the time. We will, however, revisit this. In detail.” 

His smile grows and she finds herself smiling back. 

“Have your toast?” 

He waves it at her, scattering crumbs. 

“Right. Where’s your sister?” 

“In the loo.” 

“What? We have to leave. As in five minutes ago. Do you have your shoes on? Underwear?” 

He shrugs, biting a crescent from his toast. 

“Fleur!” 

“Already on my way,” comes a shout from down the hall. 

“She’s nervous,” Adam says, his eyes suddenly solemn. “She thinks they’ll pick on her. But I won’t let that happen.” 

“Damn right.” She smirks as her son giggles. She leans over, pressing a quick kiss to his soft hair. 

Fleur comes around the corner, their daughter’s small hand clutching her fingers. She gives Hermione a strained look, pleading. 

Divide and conquer. Fleur whisks Adam away, tickling him under his armpits until he screams and squirms. Hermione kneels before her daughter, brushing a finger over her chin. 

“Darling,” Hermione says. 

Sophie raises her face, bottom lip hanging out by a mile, her large brown eyes watering. 

“Don’t wanna go,” she says. 

Hermione’s heart shatters to a billion pieces of sharp glass. She wants more than anything to fold the child into her arms, to kiss away her tears and whisper away her fears. But she can see the stubborn tilt to her chin, the glimmer of defiance in her eyes. Much like Fleur, Sophie is hot tempered, digging in her heels, furrowing her brow. 

She wonders how in seven hells she made something so adorable. 

“You won’t be alone,” Hermione says. “There’s James and Albus. Your brother.” 

“But they aren’t like me, Mum. They’re…”

Hermione waits. 

Sophie stomps her foot. “They’re insufferable!” 

The vocabulary on her. Hermione beams. 

“What if I get sorted in the wrong House?” 

“Impossible. The Sorting Hat is never wrong.” 

“And I’ll miss you.” 

“Only for a little while, sweet girl. Soon, you’ll be having so many adventures you will barely have a spare thought for your mums.” 

“Not so,” Sophie pouts. 

“You’re very sweet, you know.” 

“I know.” 

Laughing, Hermione scoops her into her arms. She brushes her nose against her cheek and Sophie giggles, thrusting her sticky hands into her mother’s hair. 

“I’ll write you every day,” she says. “Twice a day!” 

“And I’ll write back every time,” Hermione promises. 

Trunks bumping behind them, the family makes it to Platform 9 ¾ just as the train whistle is blowing. Luggage is quickly handed over, robes tidied, cheeks kissed. 

Hand at her heart, Hermione sags into Fleur’s shoulder, watching as Adam takes his sister’s hand, leading her onto the train. She dashes at her eyes, ignoring her wife’s amused smile.

“You’re beautiful when you cry,” Fleur says, brushing a kiss to her temple. 

“Oh, keep your charm to yourself.” 

Fleur chuckles. 

“Why are they growing so fast?” Hermione laments. “Next, they’ll be graduating, getting jobs, falling in love.” 

“It is the way of life, my love.” 

Hermione sniffles. 

“If you like, we can always make more beautiful babies. Then your nest will never be empty!” 

A grunt draws their attention. Ginny winces, holding her back as she slams down a heavy trunk. Aline and their son, Joseph, trail behind, hiding their giggles behind their hands. 

“I’m dead,” Ginny says. “Deceased. Off with you, small child. Wait, hugs. Kiss? Right, love you. Don’t get sassy with the professors, yeah?” 

Ginny looks at Hermione. She raises her eyebrows at her tear stained cheeks. “That time of the month?” 

“I hate you,” Hermione sniffles. 

“Who’s on the rag?” Ron asks. He’s packed his daughter off already, waving at her from the platform. 

Further down, they see Harry standing with Draco, their heads close together. 

“Speaking of rags,” Ron says. “I could use a drink. Anyone else?” 

“It is not even brunch yet,” Aline comments. 

“So?” The Weasleys say together. 

“I’ll grab the twinks and we’ll be off, yeah?” Ginny says, already moving away. 

“Please do not let Harry hear you say that,” Hermione groans. 

“What? Twink?” 

“Oi!” Harry shouts, spotting them. “I resent that! I’m very masculine, thanks.” 

“For a bottom,” Draco drawls. 

Fleur snickers. Taking Hermione’s hand, she gives Draco a tiny salute. He smiles in return, giving a small bow. 

“Shall we?” Fleur asks, smiling. 

Hermione sighs. “Onwards. But straight home afterwards, okay? I want to hear more about your plans to make beautiful babies.” 

“I’m sure you can drag it from me,” Fleur murmurs against her ear. 

And so, smoke swirling around their ankles, the group set off, their shadows a tangle on the pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this one, folks! I hope it was as enjoyable to read as it was to write. 
> 
> I really want to thank you all. I've not encountered one unkind person in this fandom and that makes me ridiculously happy. You have all been extremely kind with your words and time, and the encouragement has meant the world to me. Any time I felt discouraged or had any doubts about continuing, I just took a gander at all the lovely comments and that was enough. 
> 
> Seriously, I can't thank you enough. I went through a very long period of time where I simply didn't have the courage or the inspiration to write anything. It's a miserable way to be. But the responses I've gotten from this story and others have helped push me along and get me back into a happy, creative place. 
> 
> So thank you again. Everyone please stay as safe and happy as possible. I'm sure we'll be speaking again before you know it.


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